Aestus
by whereSilencebegins
Summary: Sometimes love is gentle and familiar, like the warmth of the late summer sun. And sometimes, it is so much more...Harry/Draco
1. Chapter 1

_I'm writing a fic for the Big Bang Theory on livejournal and its KICKING MY ASS. 30,000 words in and its not even halfway done. *stabs self* anyway, I'm hoping this story will act as a metal palette cleanser. I'm terribly sorry about all my other fics that have gone by the wayside. I'm in a huge Harry Potter kick right now so that's all I'm able to write. Never fear, the others WILL get done, I promise you all that. The first on my list in the Deception. I have not forgotten. Thank you all for being patient, I adore you all *hugs and kisses*

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_Aestus_- latin for heat, passion fire, tide

Part 1: Death is not

"_Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over... Death is not anything... death is not... It's the absence of presence, nothing more... the endless time of never coming back... a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes not sound..."_

It wasn't an epic tale of love, mine and Blaise Zabini's.

We just were.

Friends first in school and then later, after I served my sentence in Azkaban, we found each other again, became something more. It was a slow thing, physical at first, merely comfortable and familiar but over time, it built into something deeper. We understood one another, you see. Slytherins both and from pureblooded families. The kind of wizards that the rest of the world pretended didn't exist because we had been on the wrong side of a war once and that was just fine. There was no fire, no passion but we didn't need that.

In the end, I knew we loved one another, in our own way.

Certainly I could never see my life without him in it.

And then…he just wasn't there anymore.

* * *

They are still calling it an accident but we had both survived a mad man and the war he created so I am still convinced that it would take more than a mere accident to bring either of us down. But the explosion in London's fashion district remains a mystery to this day, despite having both Muggle and Wizard officials on the investigation. They don't even know what caused it, only that it was magical in nature.

All I know is that it was spectacular odds that we happened to be walking past the clunky Muggle vehicle when it unleashed a fiery hell.

It was deafening, the sound of it, screeching metal and sudden, licking heat that knocked us both off our feet and slammed our bodies into the unforgiving brick of the building beside us. For a moment I couldn't even breathe, the air sucked from my very lungs by the impact and the heat that tore at the street. There were people screaming but they sounded so far off. I wanted to tell them to shut up or to at least do something useful like call for help but I couldn't even lift my head. All I could do is lay upon the warm, broken concrete and try to blink my way into full consciousness. The pain took a while to set in but when it did, it had the odd effect of waking me up.

What I saw when I managed to open my eyes was almost worse than anything I had witnessed during the war.

The explosion had set several other cars on fire, launching them in every which direction so they were strewn about the street. Glass glittered in the light of the flames near my face, blown out from the storefronts and more than one awning had caught fire. I was in the middle of it, nearly hemmed in on all sides by the raging, angry flames and the smoke was getting thicker by the minute, making breathing even more impossible.

And Blaise…

When I saw him, crumpled before me upon the sidewalk, I thought I must be stuck in some horrible nightmare. It couldn't be real that elegant, beautiful Blaise was tossed on the ground like some ragdoll, limbs awkward and head tilted at an impossible angle. Half of his face was terribly burned, no longer beautiful but twisted in a grotesque mask of blood. All those lovely black curls that he had grown out because I loved them so much, they tumbled to the concrete, making him look so pitiful, so broken.

He had been walking on the outside, shielding me from some of the blast.

I knew he was dead as soon as I saw him, knew because his chest wasn't moving and there was blood everywhere. And no one could ever survive their neck being twisted to such a degree. I knew but I called his name anyway, as if he would simply open his eyes, as if that would make it all better. I forced myself to his side, my right wrist and collarbone screaming in protest, reaching out with trembling fingers to brush uselessly at his curls, to turn his head so the damage to his face was hidden. His one good eye was still open, glazed over but still a light, arresting gold, seeing nothing at all. Those very eyes, the ones I had seen go bright with excitement or dark with lust, they would never focus on anything again.

"Look at me, Blaise," I begged but of course he could not, "Please, wake up…don't leave me…" I didn't expect that to work, not really. Yet the words recycled themselves through my mind over and over again, making my throat clog with their stagnate need to escape. The tears drawing lines through the smoky grime on my face and the ache in my heart already knew the truth. In the end, I closed his single eye because he at least should have that. And then I bent over him, the pain in my chest suddenly too much to bear, and howled my grief. Of all the things to kill him, it was something like this.

How long it took for help to arrive, I could not be sure. By then I wanted nothing more than to join Blaise, to look at the same things he saw now, in death, to be by his side forever, like we once thought we would. The fires on the street slowly dwindled and someone managed to reach us, asking me questions I didn't hear. I just held onto my lover's cooling body and cried. When they tried to take him from me, I screamed at them, cursing and damning them with things I can't even remember and in a voice so shattered, I am surprised it even still worked.

Then, out of the smoke, _he_ came.

Harry Potter, dressed in his long, scarlet Auror robes, looking every inch the hero. I would not have noticed him at all if it hadn't been for the fact that everyone else suddenly seemed to melt away and there was a man crouched in front of me, his hand gently pressing against my shoulder.

"Come on, Malfoy," oh, his voice was so kind, too, kinder than I had ever heard it, than I ever suspected it could get. Yet it was still his, familiar, rough, deep, "You have to let him go," How could he ask that of me? I couldn't even respond at that point, just wrapped my arms tightly around Blaise's shoulders and held on for dear life. I wouldn't let go. I would rot with him but I wouldn't let him go. Then warm fingers curled around my chin and I was looking through my tears into fathomless emerald eyes, the ones that were so famous, that were so beautiful. And I hated them, "You must," he whispered and when I choked on a sob, his eyes filled too, salty tears dampening his black eyelashes.

It was those tears that convinced me to loosen my grip, to let them take Blaise away. So much compassion that this man would even cry for my loss.

After that I let him pull me to the side, let him wrap a blanket around my shoulders and watched with despondent eyes as he led his team with such proficiency, the matter was in hand in what felt like moments. In that time, my tears dried up but my grief became a storm, raging in my chest and making me dizzy. There was a team of Healers that waved their wands at me, murmuring to each other and trying to ask me questions but I didn't hear them. I didn't care.

It wasn't Potter that Apparated me to St. Mungo's and he didn't speak to me again after he wrapped that warm blanket around my shoulders but the witch who did was kind. I didn't care.

"I'll come visit you when I'm done here," he had said before he walked away.

Whether he did or not didn't matter to me. I didn't care.

* * *

Thirteen people died on that street that day, including the man I loved.

* * *

I didn't honestly expect to see Potter again despite the fact that he said he would come see me. Why would he, when we had never once even been civil to one another, let alone friends? I didn't _want_ to see him again, to remind me all over again (as if I could forget) why he was there in the first place and who wasn't. I didn't want him there because he would distract me from the image of Blaise's face, torn apart, eye unseeing that remained burned on the back of my eyes and I didn't want to be distracted from that. I wanted that to remain so I would always remember how the world had decided to take away the most beautiful person I had ever known; by ripping him apart and rendering him grotesque. And I know that might sound shallow and cold but one would have to know Blaise to understand how cruel that was, that he would die so bloodied and broken.

Potter would try to take that away from me with his kindness and his pity and his ridiculous, overly-sweet compassion. But I wouldn't _let_ him. My grief was as ugly as the way my lover had been taken from me and I wanted it to consume me.

They brought me to a cramped, overly crowded room in the Emergency wing of Injuries and Maladies and forgot about me on a bed that was stiff and smelled like too many cleaning spells. The rest of the beds were full, patients with a variety of ills, some of which were cringe worthy and rather messy. I didn't look at anyone else; not to see if they cared enough to recognize me, to glare angrily when they remembered my name. Instead my gaze remained on my shoes where they dangled an inch or two above the floor, the expensive Italian leather now scuffed and discolored. They were one of my best pair of shoes, cost nearly and arm and a leg and suddenly I hated the man I had been, who had bought them with such pride. They were fucking _shoes_. Those wouldn't die; sure they get scuffed and damaged but they could be replaced. A life couldn't be replaced. It didn't come in sizes and wasn't sold in stores. It was a one-time deal and yet it felt like I had taken better care of these stupid shoes than I had of the people I supposedly cared about.

A hospital room, it turned out, is the perfect place for introspection. The bustle and non-stop commotion around me became background static and my eyes remained on those worthless shoes, hating them and myself more and more while I continued to reminded myself what Blaise's face had looked like in death. The longer I sat there, alone, unnoticed as if I had cast a Disillusion charm around myself, I realized that he had been the only person left in my life, just as I had been in his. Mother lived in France and Father was in Azkaban. All the rest of my friends from school were gone or dead. No one was left to care that I was in the hospital and that my lover was dead. No one but my once-expensive, scuffed up shoes.

It was hours later when Potter strode into the room like he owed it, still in his crimson Auror robes and green eyes flashing behind his glasses. The only reason I even bothered to look up was because his arrival caused the room to still as everyone paused to stare at him. At any other time I would have admired him, purely for aesthetic purposes of course, because it was undeniable that Potter was breathtaking. Now I couldn't give a shit. I was a bit surprised he bothered to show up at all but the feeling felt flat and far away.

He ignored everyone else in the room, either not caring about the curious looks or not seeing them and merely walked over to the bed upon which I sat. So strange, I couldn't help but think as I watched him draw closer, that once I would have wanted nothing more than to see the man trip and fall on his face or to hex his legs from right underneath him. Seeing him now meant nothing at all. Even a few hours ago I would have told him to fuck off, that I wanted nothing to do with him. But what did any of that matter now? I just sat and quietly watched him come, feeling tired and dirty and hurting so fiercely it was difficult to breathe.

"Sorry that took so long," Potter began as he stopped before me and running his hands through his hopelessly wild hair. It was longer now, I noted absently but it was still a mess. Blaise would have had a scathing remark about personal grooming and I quickly squashed that thought before it could crush me, "I meant to be here hours ago but the cleanup and paperwork for this case has been…oh, um…never mind…" he seemed to realize halfway through his unwanted explanation that _this case_ involved me and my dead lover. He was suddenly awkward and remorseful and once I would have snorted at his amazing ability to put his foot into his mouth.

Today I stared blankly at him, wishing he would just leave me alone. Finally the silence seemed to get at him for he tugged at his ridiculous hair and shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

"Look, er, what did the Healer say? About your injuries," he sounded oddly concerned and for a moment I stared at him, feeling as blank as I'm sure my face looked. Then a great wave of irritation swept through me and I glared hotly at the dark haired man, suddenly hating him more than I ever had in my entire life.

"What Healer, Potter?" I sneered at him, wishing he would find someone else to go save, "You are the first person to speak to me since I've gotten here. What the fuck do you care, anyway?" my vehemence seemed to take him aback but instead of pissing him off and making him snap angrily at me like I had hoped, his eyes narrowed dangerously. Though dark fury blackened his expression, it was not because of me. I nearly stopped him when he whirled away and stormed over to the nurse's station right across the hall but it wouldn't have made any bit of a difference. From what I could recall about our time together at school, Potter was the most stubborn Gryffindor I've ever had the misfortune to meet.

"I want to know why there is a patient here that has not been seen by a Healer when I _know_ he's _been here for_ _hours_," the deep voice carried through the ward and everyone scrambled to obey. What a fool, thinking I cared whether he snapped his fingers and made someone come examined me or not. There was pain, of course, in my wrist where I must have thrown my hand out in order to catch myself, a sharp one in my collarbone, which would send bolts of pain down my arm when I feebly tried to move it and some minor scrapes that could probably easily be healed with a simple Episkey. I barely even noticed them though, because it was a lot less then I had suffered during the war and they were nothing in light of what I had lost. Truthfully, I didn't care whether I was healed or not, didn't care if I never moved from that uncomfortable hospital bed ever again.

But apparently Potter wanted enough for the both of us because moments later, a dark haired Healer with calm eyes and a serene expression greeted me with a warm smile and twirled his wand in an intricate pattern in the air in front of me. All the while, Potter stood beside the bed, oddly silent, arms crossed and wearing a dark scowl.

I just sat there and ignored them both, letting them fade into the white noise of my surroundings.

* * *

By the end of the Healer's exam, I was told I had snapped my right clavicle bone in several places and fractured my wrist. That was all. The little scrapes that littered my palms and face were quickly taken care of but there was too much damage to the bone that was not as easily mended, even with potions. I was almost relieved when I was informed I would have to be kept overnight. I just listened with half an ear as the Healer, "Please call me Derek", spoke in a cool, authoritative voice to the Auror that remained through the entire thing and Potter responded quietly, the concern in his voice falling into the numb pit of my frozen emotions. I'm not sure why the man felt he was responsible for me but I really didn't give a fuck what he did with his free time. If he wanted to spend it at the hospital pitying a man who didn't give one whit about him, then that was his prerogative.

He stood there as I was given the potions, followed me when I was lead to a quieter, more private room and watched from the corner as I curled up under the scratchy blankets, the scent of fake flowers and Scourgifys thick in my nose. Now I could feel the ache in my collar bone and I closed my eyes against it, feeling those intense green eyes cutting into me from across the room.

"Malfoy," the deep voice finally broke the silence and I couldn't even bring myself to open my eyes in response, "Is there someone I can contact for you?" it was so quiet in this room compared to the chaos from earlier, each word he spoke was like the strike of a hammer and he sounded so fucking sincere it actually roused me enough to answer.

"Why are you still here, Potter?" I barely recognized the sound of my own voice, rough and dead, almost to the point where the words lost their meaning. _Go away_, _go away, go away…_there was a pause, a stillness filled with anxious energy that I had not the strength or inclination to address before it was broken again.

"Do you need anyth—" Merlin, the man couldn't take a hint. Somewhere under the unfeeling deadness weighing down my chest, there was irritation and impatience and the undeniable need to be alone. I cut him off before he could continue.

"Fuck off…please," I don't know what he heard in my voice that time but whatever it was silenced him for a long time. I could picture him though, standing awkwardly against the far wall, hair sticking up in every direction, looking lost and helpless with those big green eyes of his that were just so _concerned_. Had I cared enough, it would have made me furious. He waited so long, I thought he might have left but then there was a swish of robes and a soft sigh.

"I'll come back tomorrow, Malfoy," he said quietly, almost sounding regretful and I thought about sneering. In the end I didn't, just pressed my face harder into the unforgiving pillow and wrapped my arms tightly around myself, uncaring of the twinge of pain the action brought with it.

"Don't bother," I whispered but he was already gone, leaving me alone. _Alone, for good_ I thought and remembered Blaise's face as it had been in life, dark, beautiful, alive with some inner joke only he seemed to know the punch line to. And then again, only this time he was dead, single eye staring blankly up at the sky, dark hair spread around him like some tragic halo.

This pain I felt, it went all the way down to my bones, and as I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could, I wondered where all my tears had gone.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey guys! Thanks so much for your reviews! I will get around to answering them, no worries. *hugs* Here's the second chapter! Please enjoy!

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Part 2: Grief and Silence…

_"My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul" ~ William Shakespear_

The tiny Muggle pub was grungy, the air a thick haze that was filled with the sounds of bad, tinkering music and the low, dull rumble of voices. It was a place where people came to drink and wallow in their alcohol fumes rather than to have a good time. A place where long, haggard faces were the norm, weathered by time and pain. Where glasses were filled without question and where it was acceptable for one to stumble completely pissed out the door at three in the morning to fall asleep in a nearby gutter. But most importantly, it was the kind of place I would have avoided like Dragon Pox only a week ago and now couldn't get enough of. It may have stank and the stool I sat upon might list to one side but it offered the best kind of solace I could find. At the bottom of a glass.

The booze might be cheap and taste like shit but after downing the second or third shot, it went down easily enough. And that was all that mattered.

Forgetting.

I just wanted to forget.

After I had been released from St. Mungo's, my arm healed and my heart broken, I realized I had no idea where to go. Blaize and I had a flat in London, of course, a beautiful two bedroom on the top most floor of an elegant Muggle building. It was tasteful and spacious, with many large windows and rooms that all ran together, separated by the fewest walls possible, every corner filled with light even after sunset. We had fallen in love with it instantly. It had been our haven the moment we had moved in nearly a year ago and we spent a lot of our time there.

Which was precisely the problem.

The flat was _both_ of ours. I couldn't go back there by myself, knowing the other person that it belonged to was never coming back. The very thought made the back of my throat burn and my chest feel as of it had been carved open and hollowed out with dozens of sloppy cutting hexes. I had gone back only once in the three days since that day and had nearly gone crazy; from the emptiness, from the grief, from being so alone and remembering over and over _why_. I had always thought that I would be the type to go numb in my grief, to wander through life so uselessly, little more than a wraith. Maybe the wraith part was true, for the glimpses I had caught of my reflection over the past couple days showed my skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent. But I was not numb. No, instead I felt every little rip and tear of my heart as it bled away in my chest and felt every stabbing breath that entered my lungs. Numbness would have been a blessing.

All the places that I had loved in that flat were now tainted with pain; the contentment I had felt now turned to ash. The little study off the living room converted into a breakfast nook was where we had eaten Blaise's mouth-watering pancakes and the table where food was often known to become props for other activities that were not so kitchen friendly. I'd loved the balcony off the living room where we drank expensive wine together and watched people from their windows behind the privacy of our wards. I loved the large, plush leather couch that sat in the middle of the living room, loved the chair in the corner of the kitchen that was bathed in warm light in the afternoon, loved the huge bed that filled nearly the whole bedroom and was so comfortable, it was a chore getting out of. Every single one of those little, insignificant places inside our home held memories I was not strong enough to face. Everywhere I looked, there was Blaise,

It just hurt so much.

I saw it all in the moment I stepped into the flat after getting out of the hospital and paused in the open entryway. It was strangely dark even though it was still only midmorning, shadows clinging the walls and lingering in the corners. And quiet. I could not remember the last time our flat had been so quiet. The sound of my own heartbeat and the buzz of magic from the flat's wards sang much too loudly in my ears.

I stood in that entryway until the sun sank below the earth and plunged everything into darkness. Just stood there and listened blankly to the nothing that surrounded me.

There was no way I could even think about sleeping in the bed with its cold, empty sheets and the engulfing size that would surely swallow my own slim frame with ease. Instead I pulled out an extra throw from the hall cabinet and curled up against an arm of the couch. It was cold and entirely too dark for comfort, even the lights from the city dampened by an incoming storm. Trapped in that darkness, I tried to pretend that I wasn't so utterly and miserably alone and I failed completely. Who would give a second thought about me now? Even my mother didn't write and if my father remembered my face, it was from behind the bars of his own prison cell. So easy was it, to wallow in self-pity when the knowledge that there was no one left to pull me out of it was so firmly stamped upon my mind. I'd been prone to it in school but I had been a spoiled brat then. Now I had not the strength to keep it from swallowing my mind.

In the interminable hours that I lay upon that couch, making friends with the ceiling and the silence, I wished it had been me walking on the outside, instead of Blaise.

People said that when their loved ones died, at first it felt like they had simply stepped away for a bit, had gone to work or to the store. They said it felt like any minute, they would turn around and that person they had lost would simply walk through the door as if they had never been gone. Perhaps because I had been there when he died, had held his broken body in my arms and had his blood still staining my clothes, it didn't feel like that for me. Every minute that ticked by, I knew that was one minute more he would not return to my side. I knew that I would never once hear the door opening or the sound of his voice calling out for me to let me know he had returned home.

And the worst thing? The worst thing was that I hadn't even let Blaise know just how much he had meant to me. How much he had meant to my existence. Just like those stupid pair of shoes, the ones I had binned on the way home because I couldn't stand the sight of them anymore; I had taken him for granted. Because I had assumed he would always be there when I needed him to be, I didn't need to understand the depth of our attachment to each other nor tell him how I felt. All I needed to say was "I love you," three little words but they had been so impossible.

It was too late to say them now.

I didn't close my eyes once as I lay on that couch and, sometime in the very early hours of the morning, I flung back the blanket and escaped. Escaped the shadows and the ghosts of my memories to wander through the dark streets lit only by sickly orange lamps. I wasn't even paying attention to where I was going until I found myself in a little pub. It was easy after that, to get so drunk I could barely walk straight. When it closed for the night, I didn't even make it back to the flat. Instead I woke up near the back entry of the building with an incredible headache and a craving for more oblivion.

Now, just thinking about going back to the flat made my stomach cramp painfully. I had not even thought about returning since I fled from it that first night and had instead stayed in a hotel that was in the complete opposite direction, finding it drunkenly when it was time for the pub to close up. It was all such a waste but I couldn't even bring myself to care. Not when the liquor burned so wonderfully as it slid down my throat and not when the pain eased just a bit the more hazy the world around me became.

I was already into my fifth glass, staring with glazed eyes at the sticky bar surface, when something jostled me from my floating thoughts. I wasn't quite drunk enough to fall off the stool but my drink slipped from my hand, which was already unsteady to begin with, and the amber liquid spread over the bar. There was a burst of muted laughter as I sat there and gazed stupidly at the spill and it took me a moment to register the bartender rushing over to sop it up with a rag while glaring balefully at something beside me.

"Haven't seen you around here before," a voice to my left sneered, "Don't you know this bar don't cater to your kind?" for a heart stopping minute, I thought the man was talking about absolved Death Eaters. It was the kind of thing people said to me right after the war, when I still had too much pride and refused to be driven from wizarding establishments. It took a moment for me to realize that this was indeed a Muggle bar so there was no way they could be referring to that. The bar tender gave the speaker a soft admonishment as I turned my head and peered over my shoulder.

"Come on, Dan. We don't have rules like that here," the bartender gave the speaker said in soft admonishment. The man standing next to my stool was leering down at me, lips crooked and twisted, showing off his uneven, discolored teeth. Dirty blond hair fell into his cold eyes that peered at me with ugly disgust. Behind him were several other men, dressed in ripped Muggle clothing and all of them already stinking of alcohol. The man that had addressed me first snarled at the bartender, who was no older than myself and had been nothing but silently sympathetic since the moment I walked into this bar.

"Shut the fuck up! No one asked you," Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that this situation had the potential to become dangerous but it was difficult to focus with the amount of alcohol already coursing through my system. Those cold eyes were back on me again, completely ignoring the bar keep's sharp, "Except this is my bar and I don't want trouble," there was disgust and hate radiating from the grungy men that had encircled my stool. But for the life of me I could not imagine what I had done to them to make them look at me like I was dirt under their shoes. Then the man who the bar tender had called Dan leaned one hand on the bar, making it so that he was nearly eyelevel with me, "So how about it. Feel like telling us why a poufter is sitting in my seat?"

Ah. I blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. Prejudices against sexual orientation weren't even an issue in the wizarding world. I had heard of the backwards Muggle thinking before but because Blaise and I had flitted along the edges of their society, we didn't really feel the sting of it. Same sex relationships had been a common practice among wizards and witches for centuries. Bonding between two men or two women had been legalized for nearly as long. So I had never grown up afraid to admit I was attracted to men. That even such a world existed was alien; what did it matter how people chose to love? I could not even imagine what it must be like to grow up like that, thinking it was wrong or some kind of perversion.

Perhaps because of that, I could not think of one word to say in response. Of course the fact that I was pissed had quite a lot to do with it too but that was only part of it. All I could do was simply blink up at the man called Dan and then turn away, thinking with the blurred logic of a drunk that it was sad my glass was still empty. I didn't even notice the tension that surrounded the bar, the way everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the new arrivals just got angrier.

A heavy hand dropped onto my shoulder and jerked me around, this time very nearly dislodging me from my seat. The furious dark eyes that glared back at me were probably meant to be menacing but it really just made me want to laugh.

"I asked you a question, you bloody fag," the man snarled, face uncomfortably close to my own. The smell rolling off of him made me want to gag, something unwashed that had been poorly masked with some cheap Muggle cologne. There was a point where I would have cut this vermin to shreds with nothing but scathing words. I could have eviscerated him without even making an effort for I knew how to wield words like a sword since I was a child. Now I just didn't care. I didn't care about his prejudices or whether I was really sitting in his chair or not. I didn't care that he was a Muggle or that he reeked or even that he had dared to touch me. Witty comebacks tangled uselessly in the back of my throat and I could not be arsed to unwind them.

"Another gin and tonic, please," I said to the bar tender who was watching on with furious eyes. He blinked at me in surprise but he didn't get a chance to reply because this time when I was shoved, I _did_ fall off my seat, landing hard on the hard floor and hitting my head on the stool next to me. The world spun for a minute and there was a loud commotion around me that made me think of the ocean around a huge black prison. The angry, crashing waves sounded like angry, shouting voices and I could feel the cold spray on my cheek.

Then the world swirled back into hazy view and I found myself staring up at the ugly Muggle that had shoved me off my stool. Someone was still yelling angrily, probably the bar tender I thought woozily, but the looming shapes above me stole most of my attention. They were like vultures, wheeling above carrion, sneering and vile in their unfettered hate. My collarbone throbbed from the rough treatment and my head ached from where I had hit it but my sense of danger was still dulled, hibernating under the flow of booze in my veins.

"Fucking little faggot, ignoring me. Think you're better than us, huh?" his toe jammed into my thigh and I thought about shifting but, really, who was he kidding? He would have to hit me a whole lot harder than that for it to be considered painful. I said nothing, "Is that what you think? You disgusting little cocksucker," he kicked me again, harder and I still continued to stare up at him. It dawned on me that I had no idea how he knew I was gay but I shoved that question away when one of his cronies jerked the stool next to me away so that I was laying flat on the dirty floor, "I would have one of my boys here show you exactly what we think you're good for but you would probably like that. Wouldn't you?" he laughed, a nasty laugh that was echoed by his mates and I braced myself for another kick.

Instead he picked up the bar stool and lifted it over me, something hard glittering in his eyes. It was a look I had seen countless times before, when my father or another Death Eater pointed their wand at a Muggle. Right before they killed.

I don't remember reaching for my wand or uttering the spell. One moment I was lying on the ground, about to be beaten with a bar stool and the next the ground was tearing itself apart, sending everyone in a seven foot radius around me flying into the air. The spell itself was typically soundless but the screech of uprooted wood and earth filled the bar, mirrored by the surprised shouts of those caught in its blast. It was such a stupid spell, one I had used for pranks back in school. But used in a Muggle bar, against people who knew nothing about magic or its existence, it caused pandemonium.

It lasted no more than a second, of course, but the screaming didn't stop and I was suddenly back on that sidewalk, surrounded by flames and staring down at Blaise's ravaged face. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks as I tried to look away but I couldn't and the people, they just kept on screaming and screaming…

I'm not sure how long I stayed like that, caught in a frozen web with my eyes trained on the crater I had made with the image of my dead lover superimposed over reality. Panicked shouts mixed with the dry sound of fire, fire that was now inching towards him from the broken store fronts, across the floor, licking at Blaise's beautiful black curls and tearing into his skin. I could see the damaged side of his face, muscle showing through the rips of his skin and blood dripping onto the pavement. And that blank golden eye stared at me, right through me, pinning me to where I sat.

Then…a hand, warm and steady on my shoulder.

A voice, pulling me back, calling my name. Reality began to swirl in front of me, the sight of blood seeping into concrete slowly dissipating and I lifted my eyes because…

Because that voice is familiar.

Green eyes stared back into my own, shaded by thin glasses and black hair and for a second the déjà vu is so strong, I nearly vomited. But he said my name, not telling me to let go and the bar snaps back into place around me, so suddenly its like a slap in the face. I jerked against the hand gently squeezing my shoulder and take a great, shuddering breath, only just realizing I had not been breathing. There is no fire and the screams had been replaced with dull murmurs. Most of all, though, there was no body lying in front of me. Just a shattered wooden floor and an upturned table that had gotten caught up in the spell.

The only thing that was the same was that Harry Potter was crouched next to me, looking at me with such compassion in his eyes, it was nearly painful.

"You alright there, Malfoy?" he asked as I tried to pull my sense of "now" more firmly around myself. He wasn't smiling but nor was he grim, like he had been four days ago when I had last seen him. He just looked mildly inquiring, waiting for me to come back to myself with no trace of impatience. Behind him, I could see the dark blue robes of the Obliviators talking calmly with the Muggle crowd, most of whom only looked mildly shaken. Potter seemed to be the only Auror present, for which I found myself oddly grateful. It was embarrassing to be seen like this, spaced out and drunk with my face wet with tears but I found myself thinking it was better Potter than someone else.

Why, I couldn't say.

"What's going on?' I asked, voice cracked and rough, eyeing the crater in the middle of the room askance. I _knew_ what happened of course, but I had used magic in the middle of a Muggle space. I was lucky it was only one Auror and a handful of Obiviators at the scene. Especially with my history. Potter sat back on his heels, hand dropping from my shoulder and gave the broken floor a meaningful glance.

"I think that's my question," he said lightly, a tiny smile curling at the corner of his full lips. It was an expression I had never seen before on his face and through my slow, drunken haze, I found myself perversely fascinated by it. Had Potter always had the ability to look like that? Then he was looking back at me again and I had to turn away from the vibrant color of his eyes, "I was about to leave the office when I got the call. A blasting curse in a Muggle bar. I would never have suspected that of you, Malfoy," I got the distinct impression that he was laughing at me but I seemed to have swallowed my sneer along with all that alcohol. I could still glower though, which I did promptly. It didn't seem to have much affect, since the idiot was smiling at me again. I had the sudden urge to punch it off his stupid face.

"I'll have you know that they attacked me first," I returned and was proud of myself that I kept the slurring to the minimum. Odd, that. I didn't seem to have been too terribly drunk before but now that the adrenaline had burned itself out, I felt even more out of control than I had been before. He tipped his head to the side and shot a look to his left.

"I figured as much," he said, sighing softly. I nodded wisely then made myself stop when I realized what he had said didn't merit such an action. All my thoughts were coming to me so _slowly_ that it was difficult to pick the right actions, "Why a blasting curse though? Nothing more subtle in your repertoire?" he grinned at his own joke and I huffed at him.

"Granger teach you that word?" I managed to make it sound rather blithe but instead of getting angry, Potter just tossed that dark, wild head back and laughed. Shocked nearly sober, I stared. Stared at the long line of his neck and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Stared at the way his teeth gleamed white and sharp and at the dimple that appeared at the corner of his mouth. It was such a rich sound, too, full and deep. Blaise, I thought with a pang, would have been falling all over himself. When Potter returned his attention to me, his eyes danced.

"She might have," he allowed, shocking me further, "That didn't answer my question," Once, Harry Potter had been dangerous because of his whiplash temper and the sheer magical power that he carried are him like some leashed wolf. Now, he was deadly and all he needed to do was smile. It made me despise myself. Blaise was only dead for four days and I was admiring another man.

This time I very nearly did throw up.

"I—" I turned my head away, swallowed hard against the bile stinging my throat and refused to look at him because I only wanted to think of a blank gold eye, not Harry fucking Potter's laugh, "They wanted me to leave because I'm gay," I croaked, wrapping my arms around myself, "So I didn't," this time Potter didn't laugh. He just nodded and stood. I thought for a second he would walk away but then there was a hand in my face, a strong hand, with long, knobby fingers and bitten nails. Surprised, I met his eyes but they gave nothing away. I didn't want to take it. I wanted to close my eyes and pass out right where I sat. I was already so tired.

In the end I took it anyway.

* * *

I was put in a booth and Potter sat down across from me, looking oddly ordinary as he did. He wasn't wearing his Auror robes; just a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a grey coat that looked surprisingly warm. The floor was being repaired by one of the Obliviators, a young woman who kept shooting dark looks in my direction that I knew enough to ignore. Some of the Muggles had been hustled away but the ones that remained looked blank, as was typical of memory spells. No one else looked our way.

"I just need to hear what happened, so I can write my report," he said, suddenly all business. A pad and pen were discreetly conjured and then he fixed his steady gaze upon my face, clearly giving me a chance to start. I blinked at him, my mind fuzzy and then rubbed the heel of my hand over my forehead, pushing back my hair.

"I'm sure you've noticed, Potter, but I'm rather drunk," my voice sounded weary but at least my words came out clear this time. He hummed quietly then placed his wand on the table between us, his hand still clutching the handle.

"If you would like, I can cast a sobriety spell," the words hung in the air like a question. For a second I almost told him to go to hell. I wanted to. It was right on the tip of my tongue. I was tried and my stomach kept twisting angrily, informing me that I would be hanging over the edge of a toilet soon. But then I clamped my mouth shut with a click of my teeth and closed my eyes.

"Yeah," the sobriety spell was gentle when it rolled over me, not like the cold, sharp slap that I was expecting. Surprised, I turned a wondering gaze, now clear and steady to the man on the other side of the booth. He was slipping his wand back into his sleeve and when he caught my eye, he shrugged apologetically.

"Ron was complaining about how my sobriety spells always felt like a punch in the gut so I practiced making them smoother," it was said so nonchalantly, like everyone's spells should be like that (which I knew for a fact they weren't). Sobriety spells were _meant_ to feel like a sharp awakening; that was sort of the point. Figures Potter would be different. Now that I was sober, I wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Then the dark haired man gestured to the little notebook in front of him, "So, you up to explaining now?" and because I had nothing better to do, I did.

It didn't take long, just enough for the bar to be set to rights and the Obiviators to slip away like smoke. By then I felt rather foolish to have been caught by a bunch of Muggles only to use the spell I did in order to save myself. Potter was trying not to smile when he slipped the pad into a pocket in his jacket.

"Really, Malfoy. Even for you, a blasting curse was rather extravagant," like he had any place to talk. I just shrugged and slipped from the booth, though I really had no idea where I would go. I could just come back here after Potter left. The men who had ganged up on me had been the ones to be rounded out and taken elsewhere so it wasn't like I would be bothered.

"Had I been sober, it wouldn't have been," I said as I followed him to the door. His back was broad, shoulders shifting under his clothing as he walked. Bile rose to the back of my throat again and I looked away, "_Lique amini_ would have done nicely," he held the door for me as we exited and I nodded my thanks, shivering when the cool night air slipped under my collar. He did that head-tilting thing again and knotted his eyebrows in question.

"I've never heard of that one before," he said and I wanted to laugh. All grown up but he was still a naive little lion at heart. I stepped away from the door and turned back to face him where he had paused on the walkway.

"You wouldn't have," I stated calmly, "It's Dark," he stared at me for a long moment then, green eyes boring into mine and I simply gazed back. If he wanted me to apologize for it, he would be disappointed. I would not apologize for who I was, though I suspected he knew as much. It was the first time in several days I didn't have alcohol clouding my mind and while it was easier to focus, I wished for it, if only to escape the intensity of his gaze. Then he sighed and looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," he said, sounding resigned, though I don't know why he would be. I watched him as he started to walk away, dark head bowed and thought to myself this man had certainly changed. If not for the hair and the eyes, he could almost have been a different person. After a few steps, though, he must have realized that I wasn't following and he turned back around. The darkness swallowed the color of his eyes, "Do you have a flat close by?" he asked. The question left a gaping hole in my chest and I tipped my head back to look at the sky. What was it about this man that he was able to inflict so much pain with such simple questions.

"I can't go back there," I whispered, thinking of the ghosts that would be waiting for me there should I return. For a moment I was sure he hadn't heard for the silence that followed seemed eternal. But when I dropped my gaze again, his expression wasn't questioning but understanding.

"I have someplace you can stay, if you would like," he said it so quietly, completely unassuming. It was just an offer; there was no expectations attached. We weren't friends and neither of us was particularly fond of each other. I knew at once I would say no.

I ended up following him anyway.

TBC

* * *

_Lique amini- latin- to melt the mind _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to all of you who reviewed! It helps keep me writing so hugs all around! This chapter ended up really long, compared to the first two but I really like it so I hope all of you guys do too. Please enjoy!_

_Edit: This was supposed to be up almost two weeks ago but I couldn't get it to work because when I tried to add a new chapter, it always came up with an error. I guess my multiple emails to the managers worked because now I can! YAY! however, I did put a link to my livejournal up on my profile so if this ever happens again, just check there. *love and kisses*_

* * *

Part 3: This Street of Broken Dreams

"_I can't wait all my life, on a street of broken dreams" ~ Journey_

Number 12 Grimmuald Place was an oddly fascinating house.

Though the outside of it looked like all of the other Muggle homes on the street, once inside it was both unique and alluring. While it was clear it had been allowed to fall into disrepair, Potter had recently started to remodel. The last time I had seen it was when I was a child and I recalled how everything had been some shade of dark brown, green or black. No other color could be found anywhere in the house and, having grown up in the Manor that had been fairly constructed from light, it had scared my seven-year-old self. Not to mention my great Aunt had been terrifying. The Black family had once taken pride in the darkness of both their name and their past and it had shown in the design of their house.

There were rooms where the old, dark elegance was still in evidence. It was a four-floor house, not including the attic and the basement so a full remodel would undoubtedly take a fair amount of time. But that was what made it so _interesting_. The clash of dark and musty with new and bright rooms that had already been redone gave the house character it didn't have before. At first I had not cared one whit about the house. But then, when I started to listlessly explore the rooms for lack of anything better to do, I found myself taken with it.

The kitchen I remember being dank and dreary had been completely stripped and gutted. The once damp stone walls had been scrubbed obsessively, revealing their light grayish blue color underneath. The counters that I vaguely recall being made out of some kind of onyx were now white marble and all the cabinets and cupboards were made of pale birch wood. In the middle sat a long, white table with twelve chairs that marched at its sides, the cushions on them pale blue. Though there were no windows, Potter had little globes of light lining the ceiling and clinging to the walls that banished any shadows from the corners. What made it even better was the narrow entryway that was still all black paneling and dark wood floors. Sometimes, I would sit on the bottom step that led into the kitchen with my morning cup of tea and would watch the lights twinkle to themselves. There was something oddly comforting about the way the darkness gave way to the light and I liked sitting in that point of transition.

The room I had picked to sleep in was a lot like that. Potter told me it used to be my cousin Regulus's old bedroom and he had only changed some of it. The walls were still a deep, dark green with little black curling patterns running along its borders and the furniture was still deep mahogany with heavy frames. But the floor was made of light wood planks covered with a colorful area rug. The linins on the bed and window were pale green embroidered with fine gold and there was a large mirror hung on the wall directly across from the window that brightened the room considerably. It was dark and light blended together and I found myself able to sleep better than I had since Blaise died. I had nightmares still, but they were muted, bearable.

There were other rooms like that in the house. The parlor on the first floor was all whites and blues with little accents of onyx and dark sea green left over from the original room. The sitting room was the same, only instead of white and blue, it was frosty purples and silver. Even the library, that instantly became my favorite room in the house, had been treated thus. Potter had kept all the original shelves of ebony but where the walls were visible, they were made entirely of stained glass. Behind the glass he had spelled light to shine whenever someone walked into the room. The ceiling was dropped on the sides but in the middle was a towering dome, also made of colored glass. In the middle of it hung a cluster of bright, dancing fairy lights. The construction and magic that must have gone into making that room was incredible, especially since the library was on the second floor, making a domed ceiling impossible without extensive spell work. I could spend hours in it a day, seeking out the comfort of its little out coves and studying the swirling patterns in the glass.

Perhaps it was because Grimmuald Place was so different from the flat Blaise and I had shared that made it so easy to be in. I had been leery at first, of its lack of natural light and of its lingering shadowed corners. In fact, in the first couple days, I nearly talked myself into leaving a total of twelve times. I would even stand before the closed door, staring at it as if I was willing it to open of its own accord to set me free. Not that Potter had locked me in here, because he hadn't. Maybe that was why I felt like I needed to run away. I didn't want his kindness or his compassion and that was what he had given me. A place to stay away from the memories with an open door through which I could leave at any time and a standing invitation to come back should I wish to. But when the door didn't open on its own, I would turn away and walk back into the house; would sit down with a book in the library or under the bright lights in the kitchen.

For some reason, I could not bring myself to open the door and walk out myself. I felt I could only do it if someone else gave me a push. Whether it was from the comfort of being in a place I had not been while Blaise was alive or the fact that it belonged to someone else, I don't know. Whatever it was, I could not obey my mind and leave.

The first time I stepped into the front hall one week ago, only a few steps behind Potter, I had exclaimed in surprise. I knew that he owned the old Black ancestral home but I did not think that was where he would bring me.

"Here?" I had asked in surprise, instantly recognizing it even though the hallway had been redone and was now warm and full of light instead of sinister like I remembered. The other man had looked at me quickly over his shoulder, green eyes piercing behind the shine of his glasses.

"You know this place?" he had asked and I wondered if he knew that my mother had also been a Black before she had married. We had only visited three times when I was young but it was hard to forget a place like this. I stepped away from the door so Potter could shut it, looking around as I did. The walls were, of all things, orange and the nasty house elf heads were gone from the walls and I had thought then that it must have taken a miracle to change it this much.

"My mother was your godfather's cousin," I responded, still distracted by the house to look at him properly. He had nodded, comprehension dawning on his face and then surprised me by offering to take my jacket. That caught my attention and I had looked at his outstretched hand warily, wrapping my arms around myself. Following him here had been thoughtless and I knew then the sooner I backed away the better, "I wasn't going to come with you," I said, watching his open expression from the corner of my eye. He had dropped his hand but he wasn't offended. Instead he tilted his head, an action I quickly learned he did when he was curious or puzzled.

"Then why did you?" he had asked and I hated that I could not answer that for myself let alone him. When I had shrugged and refused to meet his eye, I thought that he might have smiled. I could not be sure for when I looked back his features were once again calm, compassion filling his eyes. The sudden urge to punch him came back like a battering storm then and I had to grit my teeth against it.

"I don't know," he didn't flinch when I snapped at him. In fact he didn't really react at all. He just nodded his wild head and wisely did not respond in kind. For some reason, I wished he would have. I wished for a moment that we could have gone back to how we were in school, snarling and raging at one another like two wolves. I wondered if our endless circling would pick up again, once he had gotten sick of being nice out of some misplaced sympathy.

"You can stay here for as long as you like," he had said instead, making me stomp on my frustration, "I have a house elf but I don't really use him much and he mostly stays here. His name his Kreacher so if you need anything, just call for him. I will tell him to treat you as a guest. Also, the bedroom I use is the end room on the second floor so feel free to pick any of the others," Potter scrubbed his fingers through his hair and his eyes crinkled on a smile, "There are plenty, I assure you," He sounded just like the perfect host and I wondered if my being there was as strange for him as it was for me. If it was, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it. Once again, I seriously thought of leaving. I stared at the closed door that was still within reach. All I needed to do was reach out and twist the knob.

"Why are you doing this, Potter?" my voice was soft but I could tell he heard the bite in it by the way he crossed his arms over his chest, "What do you get out of it? Is it some kind of plot for revenge? Or are you getting a kick out of seeing me so miserable?" I swung around to face him and I was shocked at the flash of hurt that darkened his face. No, that wasn't right, I thought myself. He's too much of a Gryffindor to think of something like that. I sneered at him, "Or are you really that noble?" the look on his face suddenly turned sad.

"I'm not all that noble, Malfoy," he responded quietly, leaving me completely at a loss. What the fuck was I supposed to do with that? I wanted to hurt him, to punch him, to make him feel what I felt but save for a few unsatisfying flickers, he refused to play along. He had looked at me another moment longer, hands now hidden deep in his pockets before he turned to the door.

"Hey…where are you going?" I had blurted, suddenly afraid of being left on my own. Not that I wanted his company, for it was confusing and tiring but the silence was even more terrifying. His eyebrows were raised in surprise and I realized how needy I had just come across. Quickly, I lifted my chin and refused to take the question back.

"I...actually live somewhere else," he said slowly, eyes flickering away as if he wanted to hide something. I filed it away for future reference; "I just couldn't get rid of this house, since it was Sirius's. I thought that by fixing it up I could pay a small tribute to his memory. I think he would have liked that," Potter's smile was soft and real and I had to look away from it in confusion. It was a smile I should never have to see on his face, so raw, so _open_. But I _had_ seen it and I hated how I wanted to keep seeing it. I was supposed to want to dash it away with my fist, not hope to see more.

"But you'll let me stay here," I said flatly, hating my confusion and him for causing it. I suddenly wanted Blaise there with me so badly, I felt dizzy from it. He would have been better at this. He would have known how handle Potter and his guileless compassion that he kept forcing on me. Of course, I could have said no to it as well but I hadn't and that was the whole crux of the problem.

"Yeah, I already said you could," he gave me an odd little look that I couldn't decipher and stepped out onto the stoop outside. I followed to the doorway, as if to leave as well but I stopped just inside. I knew, knew with every fiber of my being, that I should just go. But I didn't. Again. His eyes were very green as he lifted his hand.

"Where do you live, then," I had asked quickly as he walked down the steps and he turned around again as he reached the bottom. The streetlights threw odd shadows onto his face, making him look like another person. It was eerie and I put my arms around myself, suddenly cold.

"Godric's Hollow. It was my parent's house," when he flashed me a smile this time, I almost returned it, "Goodnight Malfoy," and in the next breath, he was gone.

That had been a week ago and I had not seen him since.

* * *

In that time, I had been able to explore all of the rooms in Grimmuald Place several times over, barring Potter's, of course. I had thought about trespassing there several times but my curiosity wasn't strong enough to overcome my wariness. Being there by myself was a bit lonely, yes, but it was better than wandering around London at night completely pissed out of my mind until I passed out in some hotel room somewhere to sleep off the hangover. If I still craved the oblivion at night, when I felt my grief the keenest, it was easy to find the liquor cabinet. At least then, if I woke up blurrily on the couch or even floor with an aching head, I was close enough to a hangover potion. And I felt safer here, though I could not think why. I shouldn't feel safe in a house that belonged to a man I was supposed to actively dislike yet I did. Perhaps because it was so _different_ than any other home I had been in. The Manor was never dark, even at night and Hogwarts had been both dark and full of life. There had been a couple other flats before Blaise and I had found the perfect one and none of those were anything like here.

I wasn't sure what to make of that.

On the seventh day Potter had been gone, I had awoken from a dream about Blaise with a gasp, tears dripping into my hair. I always dreamed about him, every night, sometimes about when he was alive, sometimes about…after. That night I had dreamed about his funeral.

It had taken place the day after I followed Potter to Grimmuald Place, the only day I had ventured from its walls. I had walked into the kitchen to find a small, golden owl sitting patiently at the table, a red envelope sitting in front of it while it watched me ascend into the room. It was an odd little creature, it's feathers almost metallic and its eyes almost the same color. When I reached for the letter, it gave a soft hoot and surprised me by fluttering silently up to perch on my shoulder.

"Well, hello there," I murmured, peering at it out of the corner of my eye, just in case it actually had some malicious intent. But it just ruffled its feathers and was content to sit there, the edges of its soft wings brushing against my neck. I had smiled then, the first real one in five days and something cold and tight had eased just a little bit in my chest.

The letter, when I opened it, was from Potter. I recognized his unruly slant immediately. The sight of it wiped away my smile as quickly as it had come but not because it was unwelcome. The slow feeling of warmth suffusing my chest that came along with it was.

_Draco,_

_I know you have been distraught these past couple days, which is understandable, so I took the liberty of seeing to Blaise's funeral. It is to be today at noon in his family's plot near Bath. I would have informed you sooner but I was just able to arrange the details and could not get them for another day. If I could come with you, I would but something has come up at work and I cannot get away. _

_Should you wish to return to Grimmuald Place, I have attuned the wards to your signature and they will allow you to Apparate directly into the house. You are welcome to stay for as long as you need. _

_Harry_

I had to sit down in the middle of reading, the sinking horror washing over me making me feel faint. In my need to run away from reality in a failed attempt to escape what had happened, I had completely forgotten about the funeral. Now Potter had done what I should have and that was just another thing I owed him. But more than that, I had _forgotten_. Guilt and angry grief stole over me like a surge of the tide, making the world tilt around me and the air solidify painfully in my chest. How could I have forgotten about Blaise's funeral?

The sob that broke from my chest startled me but even when I clapped my hand over my mouth, the sudden overflow of anguish didn't stop. It flowed, salty and wet over my wrist and ripped sounds from my throat that I did not even know I could make. The shaking of my shoulders dislodged the little owl who gave a distressed cry before flying off. I watched him through my blurred vision and tried to still my weeping but it had become a storm. Even when my stomach cramped from it and I was doubled over, arms wrapped around my torso, I continued to cry. Tears and snot and drool all dripped from my chin onto the floor and I could not _stop_.

The more I thought about Blaise, dead and to be buried later that day, my beautiful Blaise, I only wept harder. Wept until the weak, gasping sobs became screams, until I thought I would simply pass out for lack of air, until I started to gag on the sobs. Blood roared in my ears and my heart pounded with the effort of it. But I could not stop.

"…Master Draco! Master Draco, what being wrong?" I almost didn't notice Potter's dotty little house elf that he had left with me, even though he was practically in my face and yelling to get my attention. I think that if it had not been for him, I would have kept crying with all the violence of my grief pouring out of me until I died. I was close to actually vomiting by then, or passing out, when a boney hand was placed over my eyes, blocking out the bright kitchen, "Kreacher is sorry about this Master Draco. Please sleep for a bit,"

The last thing I remember thinking before anguish deepened into unnatural slumber was how despicable I was for forgetting.

With the flooding outpour of grief, when I finally arrived at the small cemetery later that day, all I felt was drained. It was a warm day, with very few clouds scuttling across the sky and the sun hurt my eyes as I walked up the hill to the entrance. It was so quite here, outside of London. Though I was used to the silence just from being alone, the quite in the country was different than that in the city. It felt less constricted. All those people that surrounded me in the city and I had felt so alone, I could have been isolated by oceans. But this was different. Here the loneliness was more pure, more direct. It didn't make me feel like I needed to run away. It made me feel like I _had_ run away and had simply accomplished nothing by it.

The cemetery was very different than the Malfoy plot was in that it was not kept on Zabini property. Whereas our Manor had been there for centuries, Blaise's family had kept many residencies over the years. The family cemetery, however, remained where the first house had been, back when the Zabini name had first become a prestigious pureblood line. The manor that had been attached could still be seen from the top of the hill but it belonged to wealthy Muggles now and the plot had been warded off to keep unwanted visitors away. It was a pretty little place too, all grass and tall, old evergreen trees that offered dark, cool shade from the sun. The breeze hissed through the needles, filling the air with the sound and I paused at the entrance, taking a deep breath of their rich scent.

Wizarding funerals were different from Muggle ones, I am lead to believe, because we do not have priests to say the farewell prayers at the burial sight. No one but loved ones attend the burial of a witch or wizard and nothing is ever said until the coffin finishes turning to ash in the open grave and the ground is filled back in. For this reason, I expected to be the only one attending. Thus, I was surprised to see another figure standing at the far end of the cemetery, before a mound of dirt and a dark, shiny casket.

Mrs. Zabini merely looked at me when I stepped up next to her. She was still quite beautiful, looking very much like her son and my heart clenched. Black ringlets cascaded down her back and caught in the fragrant wind and the sun reflected in her light hazel eyes. Eyes that were red and puffy to match my own. Though Blaise had never been very close with his mother, who had gone off to Europe to secure a husband shortly after we had started at Hogwarts, there had never been any bad blood between them. In fact, they wrote to each other regularly, up until Blaise died. I had simply forgotten about her and the fact that she would want to see her son buried, so wrapped up in my own pain as I was.

We didn't exchange words. We simply looked at the casket in which lay our lovely Blaise, hovering over the hole in the ground and covered in apple branches, the little white flowers stark against the dark wood. Blaise was in there, I thought listlessly and then corrected myself. No, he had moved on already. All that was left was his broken husk, waiting to be burned and returned to the earth.

I was the one who raised my wand to cast the _Incendio_. Whitish flames leapt from the end of my wand and engulfed the coffin, hiding it from view and filling the air with the scent of burning apple wood. When Mrs. Zabini grabbed my hand and held on so tight, my fingertips went numb, I didn't pull away.

And we watched until the last ember died and the ashes were allowed to drop into the earth. Only then, when the hole was filled on top of Blaise's ashes and the simple white headstone was put in place did we let go. There were tears in his mother's eyes when they met my own and I was suddenly very glad I had broken down as I did earlier. I suspected that if I hadn't been completely drained of my tears, I would have broken right there. Her hair caught on her full lips and clear tears soaked into the fly away strands when they fell.

"Thank you for loving my son," her voice was soft with a hint of accent as will happen sometimes when one spends a lot of time in a different country. They were not words that I expected to hear and they pierced through my chest like barbed arrows. I knew her thanks was genuine but I could not help but think I had not loved him enough. Maybe if I had, this would not have happened. I reached up and brushed the hair and the tears from her face, my skin looking nearly white against her dark skin. Just as it had when I had touched her son. She smiled at the gesture.

"It was…not enough time…" my voice was creaky and hoarse, making me wince to hear it but she simply caught my hand and held it in both of hers. Both her fingers and her eyes were warm.

"It was enough for him. I could tell, in the letters he wrote me, how very happy he was with you," and despite how much I had cried before, the ache was back as were the tears, filling my eyes and making cold tracks down my cheeks. I did not want to cry in front of her but when I tried to look away, she freed one of her hands from around mine and turned my chin back, "I just want you to know that though Blaise was admittedly raised to be selfish, he would not want you to grieve for him forever," I closed my eyes, not wanting to acknowledge her words even if they were true and didn't open them until she stepped away, "Just think about it,"

One last smile and she was gone.

I stood in front of that gravestone, the one that said _Blaise Zabini, 1980-2000_, until the air grew chilled and the sun began to reach for the embrace of the horizon. Long enough that my stiff muscles ached as I crouched down in front of it and pressed a kiss to the cold stone with a whispered, "I miss you." Only then, with a heavy heart did I Apparate back to Grimmuald Place.

The lonely silence was nearly crushing and all I wanted was to go back to sleep but there was still one more thing to do. Before the funeral, I had taken a detour to Diagon Alley to purchase a pure silver bowl, a vile of unicorn tears, a stick of crimson wax and a small ritual knife. Along with a sprig of apple blossom, I carried them all out into the little yard behind the house that was full of Kreacher's flowers and knelt on a patch of grass. There, I spread out everything out, the tears tipped into the bowl and everything else on the grass beside it. Though it was already dark, the lights from the house spilled into the back yard, giving me enough light to see by. It was a warm light, gold and soupy and I was glad for it.

The Leaving Ceremony was a ritual every pureblood did after a loved one had passed away. It was a simple ritual but it was believed that once done, the deceased soul was given easier passage into the next life and their magic was returned to the great well every magic user tapped from. Again, no words were said, not until the very end.

I took a deep breath and broke the stick of wax into thirds so it would fit in the bowl with the unicorn tears. It clunked at the bottom of the bowl, looking obscene against the pure, clear liquid. Next I lifted the knife and held it to my opposite palm over the bowl. The pain was minimal for the cut was not that deep and once the unicorn tears were dyed completely red, I wrapped my hand in a cloth I had brought with me just for that reason, stemming the flow. On top of the red liquid, the apple blossoms looked like flakes of snow.

"Blaise Zabini nomen eius. Liberabis animam eius, excipint essentia, reddidit terram magica," the words I had been made to memorize when I was young and though I had not recited them in some time, they flowed from my tongue with gentle ease. The crimson liquid in the bowl shifted, the white petals sucked into its depths. Slowly, it reformed itself, solidifying and becoming a long, thin candle that was black as pitch. I lifted it from the bowl, which was now empty and gleaming in the spill of light. My breath on the wick acted like a spark and a small, white flame flickered into being.

"Vale," I whispered and just like that it was done.

Now, six days later, that very candle burned steadily upon the nightstand beside my bed. It would continue to burn for a full three months, the flame never wavering and the wax never melting. In that time, I was to mourn my lover. Three months was not nearly long enough. Right now, it felt as if forever wouldn't be long enough.

When I woke from the nightmare, the candle was the first thing I saw and I had to look away. I had dreamed of that day we had laid Blaise to rest but when we burned his casket, I could see his face as it was consumed. Could see his flesh bubbling and peeling, could see the bone underneath blackening as the flames licked at it.

Just remembering it made me nauseous and I slipped out of bed, knowing I would not sleep again that night. It was like this every night I didn't pass out from too much alcohol. Sometimes I would dream about the day he was killed. Once he came to me as a ghost, his face torn apart and screamed at me, blaming me for letting it happen. Now it was the funeral. I rubbed my fingers through my tangled hair, a dull pain pulsing slowly at my temples before stealing through the darkened house to the kitchen where the lights only dimmed, as Kreacher had informed me, if the house was entirely empty.

"Master Draco not being sleeping well," was the greeting I received as soon as I stepped into the warm glow of the kitchen. At once the tension in my shoulders eased a bit, relieved to be in the light again, and I nodded to Kreacher where he already stood in front of the stove where a teakettle was starting to steam merrily. He was worried about me, I could tell by the way he refused to take his eyes off me whenever we occupied the same room. I was used to such behavior from growing up with house elves but sometimes I wished they were not so diligent.

"No, Kreacher, I'm not," I agreed with a sigh, shuffling over to the table and pulling out a chair. The cushions were abnormally soft, no doubt thanks to a charm and I sank into it gratefully. The sleeves of the borrowed nightshirt rode up my arms when I propped my head in my palm and I studied the thin material as I listened to the sounds of Kreacher making me tea.

Everything I wore here was Potter's. I had no wish to go back to my flat to fetch my own clothes and he had not returned so that I might ask him to swing by for me. I supposed I could have sent the little old house elf, as he would surely love to be of some help. But for some reason, the deep, musky scent of the dark haired man's clothing made me feel a little less lonely. They were a little baggy in fit, for he was more muscular than I, but the sleeves and trousers were always a scant too short. Yet even though I had to keep pulling down the sleeves, I continued to wear them. It wasn't like Potter didn't know, as he had to know I only had the clothes I was wearing when I first came here. Besides, it was Kreacher who put the clothes out for me in the first place.

"Your tea, Master Draco," a steaming cup was placed in front of me, cloudy from the milk that had been added and I took it with a nod, warming my hands against the heated porcelain. The first sip sent a cascade of soothing heat down my throat and I breathed it the scent of it deeply, reflecting upon how tea always seemed to make everything a little easier to handle. Then I noticed Kreacher still standing beside me at the table, twisting his hands together nervously. I eyed him over my cup through the curls of steam.

"What is it, Kreacher?" I finally asked, taking another fortifying mouthful of tea. He blinked at me and mumbled something I couldn't make out but which sounded worried.

"Kreacher be wondering if Master Draco would like a potion to help him sleep? Kreacher could be asking Master Harry for some," the croaking voice was laced with genuine concern and I put my cup down, not quite sure how to respond. I was exhausted from not being able to sleep but, on the other hand, I didn't want to get dependent on it, which was what happened if sleeping droughts were taken on a regular basis. A moment later I thought that I had no reason _not_ to get addicted to a potion and was about to tell Kreacher that, yes, some sleeping potions would be most welcome.

But then Potter stepped into the room and the words stuck in my throat.

I froze upon seeing him, completely shocked by his sudden appearance that I did not even know how to react. He too, paused when he saw me staring back at him from the table, green eyes brightening with surprise.

"Oh," he said mildly, "You're awake," and maybe because it was nearly two in the morning and the remnants of my nightmares were still lingering in my mind, I did not immediately bite back with some retort about stating the obvious. I was glad I did a moment later because I noticed that he looked more tried than I felt, the skin around his eyes nearly bruised and his full lips were pulled down in an unhappy frown. His hair was even more wild than usual and even as I watched, he ran a distracted hand through it, making it stick up everywhere. Oddly enough, it didn't look bad on him, though I could not begin to imagine why. Sitting back in my seat, I fixed him with a steady stare.

"You've been gone awhile," I said in greeting and he heaved a long sigh and made his way over to the table, sitting down directly across from me. He was still in his Auror robes, which meant he probably came right from work. After being alone with no company but a house elf for nearly eight days, his presence filled the room, reached for the very corners and made me feel trapped. But I could hardly tell him to piss off, seeing as it was his house and I scraped my fingernails against my cooling teacup in frustration.

"Yeah," he said, gaze wandering aimlessly about the kitchen, "I'm sorry to dump you here and run. I had a case at work that required I leave the country for a few days," He met my eyes quickly and a small, tired smile quirked the corner of his lips, "International Portkey is a bitch," then his smile faded and his dark, arched eyebrows knitted, "I'm sorry I couldn't be here for Blaise's funeral. I wanted to be but…" I looked away and sipped my tea. It was starting to get cold.

"Why? You didn't know him," I couldn't tell what he was thinking and I did not wish to look at him to see if I could read it on his face. I didn't want to talk about this at all. It was enough that my dreams kept showing me things that had me ill and sleepless with grief and fear. I did not want to face the origin of those emotions while I was awake. Potter seemed to sense my reluctance because he shifted in his seat and quietly asked Kreacher, who was still standing beside me, to make him tea as well.

"I know. I would have gone for you, though," I was taken back by that and I stared at him for a moment, wondering of if he was just saying things to make himself feel less guilty. But he looked back with absolute sincerity and I realized I should have known. Of course he meant it and, suddenly flustered, I looked down at the table. Why did the git always have to say things that left me at a loss? He heaved another sigh and tapped one long, knobby finger on the table. It wasn't impatience, I knew, but something else, "I hope you don't mind if I stay here for a bit," he finally said and I did look at him then, a wry smile lifting my own mouth, glad for the change of subject.

"It's your house, Potter. You can stay or not stay as you see fit," he blinked at me for a second then snorted a short laugh. It crinkled his tried eyes and I found myself wondering for the first time about the case that had kept him away for this long. He didn't look like he had slept much at all since he had left a week ago and the bright, uncompromising light that filled the kitchen didn't help at all. Up close, his skin was as pale as my own, making the lines of his face even starker.

"I guess so," he murmured as he took his glasses off so that he could drop his head onto his arms which he had crossed on top of the table, "I just thought I would let you know, since we will now be co inhabiting the place," I raised my eyebrows at the top of his unruly head and frowned in thought. If he typically lived someplace else, why would he bother coming here?

"Another fine example of Granger's vocabulary lessons, I assume," I said instead, unable to help the quip. The momentary amusement it offered faded away when Potter simply barked a muffled laugh into the crook of his arm that lifted his slumped shoulders and then just continued to sit there. His face remained hidden and for some reason he seemed more vulnerable like this, slumped over the table as he was. It was a weakness that I assumed wasn't shown much. If he appeared in the papers, he was always calm and strong. He wore that strength like armor. The rest of the world didn't see this side, tired to the point of looking ill. His teacup sat dangerously close to his elbow and I thoughtlessly reached out and moved it out of the way.

The movement, however, was not unnoticed and by the time I was sitting back in my seat, one green eye was studying me from under the mop of Potter's wild hair. The look was sober and intent. Uncomfortable, I looked away, crossing my own arms over my chest, "Might I inquire as to why you are staying here all of a sudden? I thought you lived somewhere else," it sounded snooty when I said it and that single visible eye continued to stare at me. I wanted it to stop looking and tried not to shift uncomfortably in my seat, "I will leave, of course, if my presence here will be troubling. I was merely curious," there was another moment of silence before he closed his eyes again.

"Bloody hell, you talk like a stuck up prig sometimes," he huffed, words half buried in his arm and I started to bristle, remembering the indecent in the bar I had to be rescued from not too long ago when he continued talking as if he had not said anything offensive, "No, I don't mind if you stay. I would actually prefer it," he paused and then slowly sat back up again. When he looked at me, it was with such an open, vulnerable expression on his face, I felt embarrassed, "I don't like being alone," It was my turn to stare. Did he even know what he had just handed me? To be that honest about himself with someone he barely knew; it was strange and I knew I could never do that. In fact, I had never been that way with _anyone_, regardless of how well I knew them.

Then I wondered. Perhaps he didn't have anyone else to say such things to. The thought didn't make me feel any less agitated but it lessened my embarrassment some. Feeling strange, I drained the rest of my tea, which had long since gone cold and gave him the smallest of smiles.

"Does this make me like a stray that you picked up off the street?" I asked and some of the weariness left Potter's face. It was nice to have someone else to talk to, I realized in that moment, even if it was Harry Potter. In fact, he was very different then the boy he had in school and I found myself not minding his company at all. It was better than the silence and the nightmares, anyway, which was all I had to look forward to before he stepped into the kitchen. Those bottle green eyes, so wide and expressive without the defense of his glasses, studied me carefully.

"Hardly. You're much too stuck up and pretty to be a stray," he teased and had I been drinking, I would have sputtered it across the table in surprise. Surely the man was just teasing. I really, really hoped he was teasing because I had no idea what to think if Potter actually thought I was pretty. It was disturbing and strange and I told myself to quickly forget it had ever been said. Because under the disturbing and the strange there was something else that I had no wish to be forced to investigate. By the time I had regained my bearings, Potter was staring to flush, as if just realizing what he had said could have been taken…well, the way it had been taken. In a desperate attempt to diffuse the suddenly awkward atmosphere, I scrambled for a comeback, _anything_ even remotely witty. Yet before I could, the other man suddenly jerked his head around to stare at the doorway, as if someone had called his name so that I couldn't hear. Then he uttered the most pitiful groan I had ever heard and dropped his forehead to the table with a thunk, smashing his nose into its surface.

"How could I forget to close the fucking Floo?" I blinked at the strange change in subject, as I had heard nothing but as I opened my mouth to question him, the answer appeared a moment later. Or, more appropriately, slammed into the kitchen like some kind of tempest and screeched at the top of its lungs so that I first I was sure a Banshee had gotten into the house somehow.

"Harry James Potter!" The woman that had appeared at the bottom of the stairs was a blur of fiery haired fury and in my shock, I didn't even recognize her at first. But there was only one person who owned that ugly hair and the matching set of hideous freckles that could make such a noise. I suddenly felt very bad for Potter as an angry Ginerva Weasley advanced on the table where we sat like a storm, "How _dare_ you run away from me before we settle out argument! When did you turn into such a bloody _coward_?" she was practically snapping her jaws like a dog who had been thwarted its dinner and I would have snickered at how accurate that analogy was if I wasn't so afraid of that screeching being turned on me. Intrigued, I glanced at Potter who was now watching the she-banshee warily, like she was a short fuse about to blow. His mouth had tightened at the insult but if he was angry, it didn't show.

"I didn't run away, Gin," his voice sounded thin from weariness next to her towering volume and he fiddled with the frames of his glasses, "I thought the argument was finished," her eyes narrowed at him and she crossed her arms over her chest as if that would make her more impressive.

"No, Harry, it's not over until you agree to go to the Annual Ball and you know that! I already accepted! We can't not go!" the words sounded like they had been said many, many time before, especially when combined with the dead look on Potter's face. More things were probably about to be said but the she-banshee seemed to take notice of more than just the target for her anger at that precise moment when her eyes fell on me. This time I couldn't hide my amusement at her reaction; her mouth fell open in surprise and her brown eyes nearly bugged out of her head. It was such an ugly expression, I felt the sneer curling on the corners of my lips before I realized it. Merlin, she was ugly. Her anger threw a blotchy flush across her skin, clashing with the wild, horrid color of her hair. It took her a minute, eyes darting between me and the dark haired man across from me, before her face darkened and her jaw closed sharply with a click, "Oh, that's just rich, Harry. Is that why you ran away here? What the bloody _fuck is he doing here_?" when her voice hit an unbearable octave, I winced but her jealous, ridiculously inaccurate accusation had laughter bubbling up in the back of my throat. Potter looked like he had no idea what to do with it, either, sitting there with wide, shocked eyes. I held my hand out to her, sneer twisting into a grin.

"It's nice to see you too, Ms. Weasley. It has certainly been a while," I kept my voice completely cordial but one would have to be an infant to not hear the sarcasm in the words themselves. It slammed against her own screeching anger and made her flush deepen into a color that resembled puce. Then she balled her hands into fists and uttered a little scream from behind clenched teeth.

"Harry, _what_ are you thinking? You know he is nothing but a little _rat_," the words were hissed through her teeth, as if that would make it so that I couldn't hear her. At least I could be assured that some things never changed, I thought calmly. Her words at last seemed to jar Potter from his tired exasperation as he placed his hands down sharply upon the table and his eyes darkened with anger. It had been some years since I had seen that expression and I was almost reassured by its familiarity.

"Ginny, he is my guest and I don't have to explain my guests to you," his voice was still soft but it was rougher now. The weariness had been replaced with steel, the likes of which I had never heard before and it sent an icy chill through me. Where had Potter learned how to hone his anger like this? The she-weasel had been caught off guard but now she had regained her bearings and was glowering so hard, her eyes were nearly shut. It made her look like she was half asleep rather than furious.

"As your _girlfriend_," she snarled hotly, "I beg to differ. And Malfoy, Harry? Really? Have you lost your senses? Or did he use a curse on you?" she shot me a look and I plastered a sharp smile onto my lips, "I wouldn't put it past him," I nearly laughed out loud and wished for more tea so that I could hide behind the cup. It only made the dark haired man angrier. He stood from his seat and lifted his chin, green eyes cold. All at once my amusement faded. Those eyes fairly glowed, so frozen they were and it was such a stunning expression, I had to look away in order to breathe.

"Regardless of what the past was, he is still my guest and he will remain so until he wishes to leave," even the she-banshee paused at the ice in his voice, "Now, we will go to another room since you seem to be so eager to repeat the same argument over and over again," and with that, he caught hold of one of her gawky elbows and marched her from the room. I had the satisfaction of seeing her white, shocked face peering warily at the man pulling her along before they were up the steps and out the room.

In the stark stillness of the kitchen that followed their exit, I stared thoughtfully at the door that had just slammed closed. He hadn't gotten angry at Ginny when she was attacking him but as soon as she had rounded on me, he had become like a lion poked with a sharp stick. I wondered if it was that he felt he had to defend me because I was his guest or if there was another reason he had gotten so upset. What it could be, though, I couldn't fathom.

"Kreacher," I needed to call it as the wrinkled old elf had disappeared as soon as Weasley had first stormed into the kitchen. Smart house elf, I mused as he appeared at my elbow, looking contrite and wringing his hands fretfully, "I would like more tea," he scrambled to comply, almost as if he was grateful to be given a task. From past experience, I knew that house elves were very conscientious of their master's moods if the emotions were strong enough. I know that the elves at the Manor when I was young would give my father's tempers wide berths unless they had no other choice and were agitated until the bad moods passed. It seemed Harry's frustration with his girlfriend was troubling Kreacher. It was reinforced when the little elf shot a harsh glare at the door as two angry voices began to filter into the kitchen.

I felt another wave of pity for Potter then. Something wasn't right in paradise if he was running away from the girl he was dating. Not that I blamed him at all. On the contrary, I didn't know why he was even dating her in the first place. She was demanding and rude and said things that were designed to hurt but also designed to get her way. Her shrill screaming had hit a strident pitch and I suddenly hated her for making me feel sorry for her boyfriend, "In fact, make another cup of tea for Potter," I murmured to Kreacher who was banging more than was strictly necessary as he put on the second pot. It sounded as if Potter would appreciate the tea.

Their row lasted for nearly twenty minutes and it was all I could do not to get up and slip down the hall in order to eavesdrop. Their words were never completely audible with the door to the hall closed and they rose and fell in weaving patterns that made me curious. It was a bad habit, to listen in on conversations that had nothing to do with me. It was what we did in Slytherin, what we had to do if we didn't want to get eaten alive and I had never really been able to shake the habit. After all, you never knew what you might learn when people thought no one else was listening.

"Are they always like this?" I asked suddenly, wondering if I really cared all that much about my host. The apathy born from grief I had been feeling for a week had given way under my inquisitiveness and I wasn't sure how to feel about that. I wanted to continue on with the uncaring pall, wanted it to consume me so that I didn't have to forget, so that the pain of my lover's death would always remain imprinted upon me. At the same time, however, it seemed that once my interest was piqued, I needed to stick my nose where it didn't belong. Like an inquisitive kitten, my father had once said in exasperation when I had been found for the third time snooping in his study. Kreacher floated the two teacups to the table, the one lightened with milk in front of me.

"The nasty blood traitor girl, she manipulates and yells at Master Harry all the time. Kreacher does not know why Master Harry puts up with it," I smirked into my tea. I didn't know why he puts up with it either, and I'm a bit unnerved that I wanted to find out. The yelling had stopped by now, the snap of Disapperation having echoed through the house only a moment ago and, before I could think about what I was doing, I had picked up both teacups and started out of the kitchen.

The house was eerily quite after the racket that had just filled it and I peeked into each room as I walked by, the earthy scent of hot tea filling my nose. I didn't even know what I wanted to say to him, or even if I wanted to say anything at all. And it surely wasn't like I was going to comfort him. I was just tried of no one else's company but my own and an old, grouchy house elf.

Potter was in the sitting room, seated sloppily in a cushy looking leather chair, his face turned away from the doorway as he stared broodingly into the fireplace. He looked tense despite his sprawling posture and shook my head. That this man allowed himself to be so worked up by a red headed little shrew of a witch was baffling, especially since he could have just about anyone he wanted. Why did he stay with the she-weasel? Because of who her brother was? The questions crowded the back of my throat and I swallowed them quickly as I stepped into the room.

So caught up in his brooding, Potter didn't even notice me until I was standing next to his chair and holding the steaming teacup under his nose. He blinked at it in bewilderment before glancing at me. Surprise painted his gaze a light, vivid emerald for the split second it met my own before he dropped it in order to take the cup from my hand. A small, weary smile curled at the corner of his lips.

"Thanks," he rumbled and I nodded shortly before seating myself on the couch across from where he sat, sipping at my own tea. He held his cup between his hands like it was an anchor and his eyes were far away as he stared into the dark liquid. The way his eyebrows knitted on his forehead made him look angry but I didn't think he was. Not now that the she-banshee was gone. No, I thought perhaps he was instead sad and hoped he would not start blubbing. I didn't think I could handle that. Instead of crying, though, he took a long sip from his cup and lifted his eyes again to look at me, as if just remembering I was there, "Pity tea?" he asked and I couldn't help a smile of my own.

"Perhaps," I allowed, placing my cup on the table beside the couch and settling back on the cushions, "Might I inquire as to what that was all about?" my voice was slow and rather bland, like I didn't care but was asking out of curtsey. And it was mostly that, I admit. I didn't want to know Potter's problems but at the same time, I found that I did, which was incredibly confusing. He gave a long sigh, much like the one he had back in the kitchen and rubbed his eyes with his long fingers.

"The Anniversary of Voldemort's death is coming up and there is always an official party and an unofficial party. I cannot conceivably get out of the Gala the Ministry puts on, it is a given that I will attend. But…I don't like being the center of everyone's attention," he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and stared at a spot on the rug near my feet. Interesting. I had always just assumed that Potter ate that attention up; the papers, the pictures, the witches and wizards undoubtedly throwing themselves at him. It appeared, however, I had been mistaken and found that I was pleasantly surprised by being wrong.

"You must get an awful lot of invitations, then, as everyone who's anyone throws a party for that date," I observed and watched as his mobile mouth twisted downwards in a grimace. He nodded a moment later and drained his cup. It made a little chiming sound as he placed it on the glass table in front of him.

"I do but I never attend them. I didn't do anything spectacular. It was kill or be killed. I did what I had to do to survive but these people think I'm some kind of…" he cut off, anger beginning to filter into his voice and looked back into the fire. His eyes were nearly black from my angle, "The one that _everyone_ attends is the one held at Carn Brea Castle. The one where they can let their hair down, really celebrate rather than have to sit through a million speeches like at the Ministry's Gala," his face was dark with remembering, "I attended once and promised I would never go again," I laid one arm over the back of the couch and pushed my feet closer to the crackling fire, watching the light play on the sharp angle's of the dark haired man's face.

"That bad?" I finally ventured when he didn't speak up again and his nose was flared with emotion when he looked at me again. He looked wild in that moment, composed of dark, angry shadows and outlined by the flickering light of the fire.

"Yes," he answered shortly, crossing his arms over his chest, "That bad. It would only have been worse if they had put me in a cage so that everyone could ogle me and tell me I'm a National Treasure or some such rot. They all wanted a piece of me and there was no restraints so it was like a mob. I am very lucky to have made it out on one piece and most of my clothes in tact," he shook his head and I couldn't help it. I snorted with laughter. That was something I would have liked to see, if only to witness Potter being practically stripped and smothered by his adoring public. He rolled his eyes at me but his face did relax some.

"Oh dear," I managed when I finally stopped laughing, "That's…wow. But what does that have to do with the she-weasel…excuse me, your girlfriend," I corrected myself at his half hearted glare and just about managed not to gag on the last word. He grunted and ran his fingers through his hair.

"She accepted the invitation and told them I would be attending," his voice was low and stark as he said it and suddenly it was not so funny anymore, "_After _I told her how I felt about it," he looked completely miserable and I wondered what he was going to do. Surely he wouldn't attend the party, even if Weasley had accepted the invitation in his name.

"Well," I said before reaching out and picking up my cup to finish the rest of my tea, "Rather manipulative and underhanded of her. I would say she would have done my old House proud but that would be an insult to Slytherin," I realized after the words were out that they probably should have remained unsaid and snapped my mouth closed before anything else could spill out uncensored. The deep green gaze swung to study my face then and I suddenly wanted to move my cup in front of my face like a shield. Those eyes, they seemed to see so much and I wasn't sure I would like what they unearthed. For a moment I was sure he would rise up in defense of the red headed she-weasel but instead he blinked once and looked back at the fire.

As we sat there in silence, the night waning around us, I realized that the expression in his face was thoughtful.

TBC...

Latin:Blaise Zabini nomen eius. Liberabis animam eius, excipint essentia, reddidit terram magica: his name is Blaise Zabini. Free his soul, accept his essence, return his magic to the earth.

Vale: farewell

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_To Japan, I love you and I have been keeping you in my prayers. The whole world is rooting for you..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello, all! Sorry this took so long. I was diligently working on my Big Bang fic, which was due on the 31st and I JUST managed to finish it in time! *melts into a puddle of relief* Anyway, thanks for all the reviews! They always make me smile and encouragement is always loved. Please enjoy!_

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Part 4:

"_Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear.__And I can't help but ask__myself how much I'll let the fear__take the wheel and steer. It's driven me before, and it seems to a faint,__haunting mass appeal.__But lately I am beginning to find that I should be the one behind the wheel."_

~Incubus "Drive"

"I've been thinking about selling my old flat," I blurted out one day, two weeks after the incident with a screaming, red-headed shrew, over breakfast of cold Muggle cereal that was surprisingly good. Harry, who was sitting across from me looked up quickly, surprise making his eyes wide.

"Oh," he said rather lamely. I could tell he was trying to think of something comforting and unnecessary to say, or at least just something to say at all. Agitated, I fiddled with my spoon and watched the flakes of my cereal slowly growing soggy as they swam in their bowl of milk. I hadn't told him because I _wanted_ him to say something, though I supposed that, with me staying in his house, he should know.

"I can look for another place while I'm at it so I'm not in your hair for too much longer," I said it as nonchalantly as I could but my words still held a bite to them I couldn't disguise. Potter scowled at me over our forgotten breakfast and I was almost comforted by the familiarity of his expression.

"Malfoy, stop being such a prick. I already told you that you're welcome to stay here as long as you want to. If you were 'getting in my hair' I wouldn't have invited you here in the first place," he seemed rather angry about it, that he had to keep telling me that. It wasn't the first time I had made a comment of that sort and it probably wouldn't be the last. I just didn't like being beholden to someone, especially Potter since I already owed him so much. It grated on me, that he was always coming to my rescue like I was some damsel in distress.

"What if I want to find my own place?" I demanded and immediately wished I hadn't. Potter's face fell and though he gallantly tried to hide it, I had seen the way he dulled and how his shoulders slumped just a little bit. Did he really like having me here that much, I wondered? What was more, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I didn't want to leave either. Finding a new flat meant living alone and I didn't think I could handle that. It would only remind me of the time when I _didn't_ live alone and that way only led to depression or worse. Then Potter cleared his throat and seemed to bolster himself, pretending he hadn't been as hurt as I knew he was.

"Well, if that's what you want," he said with a painfully fake smile that nearly made me roll my eyes. An actor this man was not, "I can help, if you'd like," his big green eyes reminded me of a puppy and I felt like if I continued to be difficult, I would only just be kicking it. With a sigh, I dropped my spoon and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear.

"I'm not going anywhere as of yet," I mumbled with ill grace and told myself I did not like the way his face lit up. Not at all. It made no difference to me whether he was happy if I stayed here or not. Then I mentally kicked myself because even I didn't believe that for one second. There was a short pause that should have been awkward but wasn't before he broke the silence again.

"Can I ask…what happened to the Manor? Can't you go back there? I mean, if you wanted to," I don't think I hid my wince very well but when I glanced at him, Potter didn't seem to have noticed anything amiss. His eyes were as green as new spring grass behind the shine of his glasses when they blinked at me, waiting for me to answer. The Manor was not a topic I liked to think about if I could help it. The place, building, _house_ that I had grown up in no longer meant anything to me, though not because I wished it to be so. If I'd had my way, I'd have been living in it all along.

Scowling, I plucked my napkin from my lap and tossed it to the table. My appetite had gone off with the conversation and the completely soggy flakes of Potter's Muggle cereal, "The Manor no longer belongs to the Malfoy family," I finally muttered, ears burning with remembered fury and shame, "Didn't you read the papers? It was all over the news right after the war. 'Death Eater family gets what they deserve' or whatever shit the headlines said. The Ministry took our house and property as 'reparations'," It had been bad, too, much to my mother's humiliation. So bad, in fact, she had packed her bags, gathered her house elves and moved to France. If it had not been for Blaise's presence in my life already, I probably would have gone with her.

At the moment, I almost wish I had. I suppose if it wasn't for Potter rescuing me yet again, I might have ended up there anyway. There was nothing for me here in England. And yet…it felt wrong thinking about leaving now. Potter was watching me with solemn eyes, understanding flooding his expression. I was happy there was no pity but then again, out of anyone, it would be him that understood.

"I don't read the paper," he said simply, "I'm sorry," and he probably was. Nothing else was said as he stood and took both of our bowls so he could set them in the sink and then he was off to the Ministry with a small wave and a smile, "We'll see about getting an agent to sell your flat this weekend, yeah?" I could have informed him that I was perfectly capable doing it myself and that the condition of my heart didn't make me into an invalid but he had already stepped through the door. It just didn't seem worth it anyway. Grief made me tired and it would be nice to have someone on my side.

It didn't matter if it was Potter. In fact, I was beginning to see that not only was that not such a bad thing but the more time I spent in his company, the more I enjoyed it. I wasn't sure when that happened but I _was_ sure that it couldn't be good. The more I came to like this man, the farther I felt from Blaise and that scared me so much I wanted to flee so I'd never have to see Potter's stupid handsome face again. All I had left of Blaise was my memories and my love for him. I was afraid that, if I let myself be drawn in by this new, fascinating person, I would lose him for good.

Though it was only a little less than a month after my lover's death, I could feel him slipping away, my grief slowly starting to dull with time. The more I tried to hold onto it, the harder it got to remember his face, his laugh, his kiss, his scent. And that hurt most of all.

Yet, for whatever reason, I could not distance myself from Potter and Blaise continued to gradually disappear.

* * *

Potter walked with aggressive grace, I noted as I watched him walk down the front steps and disappear around the corner from the sitting room window. It fit him, just like his perpetual intensity fit him and his wild, abundant hair fit him. I didn't recall him moving like that when we were younger but then again, I was more interested in tormenting him rather than taking notes on how he walked.

How things changed.

As much as I wished to go on disliking the man and resenting him for, well, just about everything, it was admittedly hard to maintain it. Not only because I had a hard time digging up emotions that weren't just grief and anger but because the man was genuinely _likeable_, damn him. His temper had cooled somewhat, turning into dark scowls and heavy glares. He had a sense of humor that was dry and sarcastic, something I couldn't help thinking Blaise would have appreciated. Though the clothes he lounged around his house in were on the grungy side, I knew he could clean up disturbingly well. He wasn't crude nor did he feel the need to swear like a sailor; he was intelligent and understanding and stopped talking if he sensed that I was in a particularly bad mood. Incredibly, he was very apt with dealing with those moods, usually brought on by particularly hard spells of desolation that would hit me hard and I couldn't deal with. Desolation that would practically cripple me and I missed Blaise so much, it felt like I would physically shatter from wanting him back.

One of those struck me the first weekend he had started staying at Grimmuald place. Saturday night, after a surprisingly comfortable and informal day of lounging about in the back garden together, drinking a sweet, chilled drink I didn't know the name of and enjoying the warmth of the gentle sunlight, he had called in Thai take out. It was such a stupid thing to let under my already weak defenses and now when I think back on it, it was humiliating that I had let him see me like that. But when he set the kitchen table and dug into one of the containers to sneak a bite like he thought I wouldn't notice, I was struck by the action. Blaise used to do that, laughing when I lifted one eyebrow in disapproval, saying with the rich scent of spices filling the air, "but the first bite out of the carton just tastes better!"

I think he was a little terrified when I broke down right there at the kitchen table, though I was too busy trying to breathe through the sudden attack of grief to notice the expression on his face. Like the time when I had realized I'd forgotten about my lover's funeral, this burst of emotion was just as messy. I tried to turn away, my face buried in my arms, wishing I could see so I could run away but then there was a warm hand on my shoulder and a soothing, steady voice in my ear.

"Okay, Malfoy," he whispered, holding me close and not even batting an eyelash when I accidentally smeared tears and snot on the shoulder of his sweater, "That's it. Just breathe," I didn't want to _need_ that kind of comfort but I was so wrecked I didn't have the strength to push him away. The entire time, he murmured soft, meaningless words in my ear and lent his quiet strength for me to sob against. Then later, when I was curled up in the sitting room with a cup of hot tea and swollen eyes, he simply sat in his chair and didn't ask why I had started crying for no good discernable reason. We both knew why, even if he didn't know the exact details. Instead he said, "I heard about a new broom that's supposed to come out this fall. It's said it's going to be faster than the latest Lightning models. We should check it out," and I had never been more grateful to anyone in my life.

Compassion, comfort, understanding, yes but the tact I wouldn't have expected at all. I wanted to hate him for it but instead I smiled at him and nodded.

And then, after the conversation we'd had yesterday about selling my flat, he had come home that same night to announce that he talked to someone who might be interested in looking at it. At first I thought he was just being so nice because he felt bad for me but the thoughtfulness and the calm shows of compassion were not put upon, making me wonder how I could ever be free of him now that I knew what kind of person he was.

Nobody was allowed to be so bloody perfect without a few flaws, right? Not Potter. In fact, the only flaw I could see was the company he chose to keep.

Namely, Ginerva Weasley.

Since the fight Potter and his ginger girlfriend had in front of me, I had not seen much of her around. When I thought about it, something I tried not to do too much because it was rather cringe-worthy, it was surprising. The red headed shrew seemed like the type to cling to whatever poor sod she had her claws into, which, sadly, happened to be Potter. I expected her to barge in at all hours of the day, making demands and pretending she mattered. I suppose most of that might have been from my general dislike of the Weasleys and the perception that, despite how I did or didn't feel about Potter, Ginny had no place on that man's arm. But after that one row, the impression I had gotten of her was not favorable.

She stayed away for the most part, though. It could have been because of my presence in the house but I suspected it was more than that. I had no idea if Potter went back to the house he had been sharing with her, which was also his so I thought he must, or if he saw her during the day while he was out. Potter never said anything about it. Our conversations usually consisted of his accounts of one case he was working on or another or something mundane like the weather (bringing up our past wasn't conducive to anything but an argument and I was too tired for those). He probably knew I had no wish to hear about the harpy, which was true but I would have listened anyway.

Sighing, I turned away from the window and rubbed my hands over my arms, the fabric of Potter's borrowed jumper bunching under my fingers. I had taken to watching him leave for work everyday, striding down the street with his Auror robes tucked under his arm, disguised so the Muggles thought it was just an ordinary jacket. The buffoon _walked_ to the Muggle Underground everyday instead of just Apparating like every other normal wizard. When I had asked him about it the other day, he had lifted his broad shoulders and smiled.

"I like it. It keeps the days from getting too boring. You never know what you might see in the Underground," I had sneered at him a little bit, completely baffled. What was the sense of having magic at all if he wasn't going to take advantage of it?

"Oh yes, because I'm sure being an Auror is oh so boring," I had quipped and instead of one of his famous glowers like I had been expecting, he smiled sadly and turned his head away. If I didn't know better, I would say that the expression in his eyes was wistful. Maybe, I think now, recalling the brilliant green gaze that had look so far away, I didn't know better after all.

"You might be surprised," he had responded and I hadn't known what to say in response. In fact, I still didn't know what to make of that little statement he'd made. The way he talked about it when he told me his stories from cases he'd worked, being an Auror didn't _sound_ boring. In fact, it sounded bloody dangerous and every so often, suicidal. A job right up Potter's alley. Well, that's what I'd always thought, anyway, when I thought about it all. I admit now that the man didn't show up on my radar too much after the war and before Blaise's…At any rate, it seemed that being an Auror was apparently _not_ up his alley at all.

It was a mystery that I shouldn't get involved in solving but I couldn't deny it fascinated me.

I didn't look into my borrowed room when I made my way upstairs for a shower. I didn't want to look at that black candle burning on my bedside table. When I did that, I was caught in its flame and couldn't leave my room again. I tried to keep the days I spent here a routine so I didn't fall into boredom. I supposed I could leave the house but the back garden was good enough when the weather permitted. If I could keep myself from wallowing in my grief curled pitifully amid my sheets, I could forget for a little while that it was getting difficult to remember the exact shape of Blaise's smile and the shade of his golden eyes.

On those days, I ate breakfast with Potter and then saw him off to work, though I don't think he knew about that second bit, before taking the longest shower I could before the hot water ran out and my fingers pruned. Being clean always made me feel more awake, kind of like a strong cup of tea, so I would end up wandering around the house, seeking out all the dusty, forgotten corners of the old Black family home. It was more excited than it sounded, as the house was indeed much bigger than it appeared to be. There were hidden nooks and crannies all over the place and rooms tucked into the least expected places. Some of them Potter had either redone or had clearly started working on while there were others I didn't think he even knew about. Strange things could be found in these places; sometimes oddities from a family long diminished while others were clearly Dark artifacts and which I gave a wide berth. Nonetheless, I usually lasted until mid afternoon, when my stomach started rumbling and I would go downstairs again to find Kreacher with dust clinging to my borrowed clothes and mussed hair seeking lunch.

Kreacher was an interesting companion to have around, puttering around while I ate whatever he made me, which was usually lavish dishes I recall being served at some of my mother's formal dinner parties. I think he was just happy that, as a pureblood, I would understand and appreciate the food he made. The ones I liked the best, though, were the simple corned beef and mustard sandwiches I knew Potter favored when he was around. As I ate, he would talk in his creaking, trembling voice about some of the good things he remembered about my mother and my aunts and cousins. It was strange but amusing and he always looked so happy that I listened.

After lunch I usually whittled my hours away in Potter's magnificent library, lounging in one of the cushy chairs with a book in my lap. He had books of all kinds, Muggle and Wizarding, but for some reason I found myself drawn to the Muggle ones. It was fascinating to see how imaginative they could get when they didn't have the limitations of _knowing_ about magic. To them, magic was just another myth so they could make it into whatever they wanted, without the truths about it getting in the way. Strangely enough, instead of bothering me, I found it refreshing and could often lose myself in a plot until Potter was stomping through the door with either take away or groceries for dinner.

Like this, I could force myself not to feel and to forget what it was I didn't want to feel. And then, a little more than three weeks since I came to stay with Potter, the peaceful status of my days was shattered.

* * *

I had just finished my shower and was rummaging through the slowly growing pile of clothes I had been sneaking from Potter's closet when there was a thump from downstairs and then a horrifying crash. Nearly leaping out of my skin in fright, I quickly snatched trousers and a jumper that was much too big and threw them on as I dashed down the stairs. It was mid-morning on a Thursday and I was the only one besides Kreacher in the house.

My first thought was a break-in, as the old house elf was generally very quiet unless he was taking to me. The wards were old and Potter seemed to have allowed them to relax, having no real need for them now that the war was over and most dangerous Death Eaters in Azkaban. It would still take some effort getting in but a truly determined witch or wizard would manage it. It could also have been something simply falling, a Sticking charm finally giving way but as I reached the first floor, I kept my wand ready at my side and my footsteps as quiet as I could. The floorboards didn't creak much but it felt as though my heart would give me away as it tried to thump out the back of my throat.

There was a muffled curse then another crash from the sitting room and I switched my wand into my left hand temporarily to wipe the sweat from my palm. Despite being a good duelist, courtesy of my father's upbringing, I didn't like confrontation. Not after the war. I didn't like the possibility of getting hurt and being put in danger but I especially didn't like hurting other people. It was one of the reasons why I had been unable to kill Dumbledore; the very thought made me cringe just thinking about it. By now my hands were shaking and I swallowed dryly as I tip toed up to the opening of the sitting room where the person inside was breathing heavily and making rhythmic swishing noises, like they were pacing.

"Fuck, _fuck fuck!"_ I nearly jumped a meter into the air when something else broke noisily against an unfortunate wall and it took me another long, heart pounding moment to realize that had been Potter's voice screaming profanities. Immediately relief flooded through me, leaving me sagging against the wall with my wand held limply in my hands. For a terrifying moment, I had thought I would have to chase out a rather violent intruder. Then I took a deep breath and let my curiosity take me around the corner and into the room.

Just in time to see Potter scream wordlessly and fling the heavy, gold-framed mirror that usually hung over the mantel across the room. It slammed awkwardly against the wall, tearing a gash into the paneling and showering that end of the room with little shards of reflective glass. This time my heart leaped and raced for a different reason entirely, mostly as a result of the palpable _rage_ that thickened the air until it was like soup, making it hard to breathe. The man looked positively _wild_, with his hair in every which direction, length adding to the look and his eyes huge and dark behind his crooked glasses. His crimson Auror robes hung open around him and the white button down he wore underneath was disheveled, like he had been yanking on it in his anger. I was not aware that I was gaping until he whirled around and spotted me in the doorway, expression so fierce I felt a fission of fear.

"What the _fuck_ do you want!" he snarled, advancing a few steps before bringing himself to an abrupt halt, hands clenched at his sides and hair fanning out with wild magic. I'd never seen him this mad, which was saying something considering how angry I had gotten him while we were still at Hogwarts. Compared to what he looked like now, he had been like an indignant Crup puppy. Now he was a beast, his fine control shivering about him on delicate strings that were about to snap under the strain. I took a deep breath then lifted my chin. I would not be afraid of him.

"I heard a crash and I came to make sure everything was still intact," I lifted an eyebrow and looked around, taking in the impressive wreckage of the room, "Apparently not," his nose flared with the effort of keeping himself still and I felt his magic pulsing warningly in the air. Then he clenched his jaw and turned away, striding back to the dark fireplace. Every step he took was a controlled motion, deliberate, charged. I felt like I was flirting with a hungry lion that would quickly see me as lunch rather than a friend if I made the wrong move. Nervously, I realized that the comparison was probably not that far from the truth.

"Go away, Malfoy," Potter's voice was oddly strained and he ducked his head so he could grab two fistfuls of his hair, pulling on it rather than running his fingers through it like he usually did. Tucking my wand into my sleeve, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the doorway, watching him pace back and forth over the carpet in front of the hearth. The ends of his hair actually lifted and curled from the seeping magic and though he turned sharply at the end of a couple strides, his robes billowed out more than they would normally, reminding me sadly of Snape. Thankfully, he'd stopped throwing things. Finally he stopped moving and stared out the front window, eyes still blazing with fury.

"Potter," I ventured after long minutes of silence where he just stood there and breathed. At the sound of his name, he gave a little shudder and his shoulders drooped. All the magic that had been dancing around him and charging in air deflated along with him, dissipating like a heavy fog. The change was alarming and for a second I wondered if someone had died. Well, someone else. His dark head ducked, chin hitting his chest and I took an involuntary step into the room, barely suppressing the impulse to reach out and touch him. He must have heard my movement because he took a shuddering breath and spoke in a soft, unsteady voice.

"I got a call today from a realtor. My realtor. For Godric's Hollow that…that Ginny is putting up for sale," I felt my eyes go wide, completely shocked. Even I understood what that house had to mean to him. It was his parents' house, the one they had died in, the one his entire conflict with the Dark Lord began in. I had seen a few pictures of him standing in front of it with a couple of his friends on his desk in the third floor study and I could see the pride on his face even in the little, animated squares of magical paper. I knew that the she-weasel was a complete fool but I didn't think she was actually stupid enough to try and sell his _house_.

"If I may?" I ventured, taking another step into the room. Potter's shoulder's tightened for a moment before he turned and faced me, the lines on his face looking hollow and his eyes dark with so much hurt I could almost feel it, "How does she have the authority to sell your house?" the only way that could happen was if he signed off half of it to her, as couples sometimes do when one moves in with the other. Yet even then, she needed to consult him and they needed his signature before anything could go through. His green eyes flashed dangerously but he was feeling the betrayal too keenly for it to flame up into full-blown anger again.

"It's not up for sale yet. She can't do that by herself because it's not completely hers," the way his voice rasped and shook with emotion made me feel momentarily bad for him but I was really just angry. Angry at him for not having seen what kind of woman the Weaselette was and wishing I could hex her for making me want to comfort him, "But…she must have convinced the realtor, Ms. Small," he twisted the name into something mocking, "that I was on board and just didn't have time in my schedule for the meeting," he scrubbed both hands through his hair and then collapsed into the couch, eyes red rimmed and hollow, "I don't understand," he whispered, "I don't understand it at all," I sat next to him, frowning at the way his helpless expression pulled at my heart. It was strange being the one comforting rather than being comforted. I didn't like it because I wasn't used to doing it. It made me wonder what kind of selfish bastard I had been, that I couldn't even bring myself to pat Potter on the back or offer a kind word when he looked so pitiful. Awkwardly, I touched his arm, a quick, fleeting touch that, while not exactly warm, brought his eyes to mine, surprised and maybe just a little less hollow looking.

"Have you…talked to her?" I asked after a few moments, not knowing what else to say. I knew what I would do in this situation. I would simply go to a Solicitor and have her removed from all the house deeds and then dump her ass. But then again, I was too much of a Slytherin to ever give someone that kind of power over something that was mine. The only reason both mine and Blaise's names had been on the contract for our flat was because we bought it together and it held no sentimental value to either of us except that it was ours to share. I would probably not have cared if he decided to sell it and bought another place but then again, our tastes were the same so I knew it would be a good place. Gryffindors, it seemed, did not think of terms of logic and consequences. They let their hearts lead. An admirable but potential messy way to live, it seemed.

"I can't," Potter muttered darkly, staring down at his hands clasped white-knuckled in his lap, "I'm…I'm so _angry_, I'm afraid I'm going to do something I'll regret," he shook his shaggy dark head then heaved a great sigh that sounded like it came up from his very toes, "I suppose I should. Maybe she has a good explanation," I felt my mouth twist when the words, _but I doubt it_, floated in the air between us.

I was sure he was thinking them as hard as I was and the shadowed green eyes continued to look tortured and betrayed. Even after I brought him a cup of tea and sat next to him on that couch saying nothing, his expression never changed. And when he finally mustered up enough courage (as though he was lacking it, which was unlikely) to send an owl to the she-weasel, I wandered into the kitchen and made spaghetti and meatballs with Kreacher's help. Comfort food. I couldn't soothe with touches or soft words but I could cook, a trade learned I in the past couple years. By the bright look on Potter's face when stepped into the kitchen just as I was finishing, perhaps I hadn't done so badly after all.

I would not examine why that made a little bubble of warmth rise within my chest and ignored the way those brilliant green eyes watched me all through dinner. I was afraid that if I acknowledged him, I wouldn't be able to stop.

And that was something that just couldn't happen.

* * *

The fight and subsequent breakup between Potter and the she-banshee was, in short, _spectacular_. Like fireworks, complete with explosions of wild, angry magic, courtesy of Potter.

The owl he had sent to the Weasley girl apparently asked her to come over so he could talk to her. I'm not quite sure why they didn't just have it out at the house in question but for whatever reason, Potter chose his kitchen at Grimmuald place. I wondered if perhaps he felt more comfortable there, since it wasn't a place he had shared with her and thus had more leverage. Whatever the reason was, the fact remained that their blow out row fairly shook the roof down and I was there to hear every word of it.

I told myself when I heard her voice downstairs while I was sitting in the library, I wasn't going to eavesdrop. It wasn't any of my business and I shouldn't care one jot what happened between Potter and his ginger girlfriend. Well, that's what I told myself, anyway but I had never been any good at minding my own business. Everyone else's was always so much more interesting. I could hear the echo of Blaise's laughter in my head when I gave up after two full, agonizing minutes of listening to the steadily rising voices from a floor below me and fairly pelted down the steps, hoping my hurried footfalls weren't noticed. After all, I reasoned as I made my way to the kitchen door, wincing when I heard something shatter, I would only explode with my desire to know what was going on anyway. Wasn't it better to just get it over with rather then remain irritable and curious for the rest of the week?

"…yours to sell and if I had _known_ that was how you felt about it, I would never have asked you to move in to begin with!" Potter was snarling and as I sidled down the small flight of steps that led into the kitchen, I could almost picture him pacing, black hair even more of a mess from having run his fingers through it and green eyes fairly blazing in anger. An image I quickly discarded when it sent a little shiver of _something_ through me that was better left alone.

"I tried telling you many times that I wasn't happy there and you wouldn't listen to me!" the she-banshee was whining and the sound of it made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. There was a heavy pause and I wondered if Potter was staring at her as incredulously as I would have been if our positions had been switched, disbelieving and hurt, "You aren't happy there either!" she rallied a moment later, voice turning wheedling, "I could see how much living there hurt you. You're just living with the ghosts of your parents in that house!" this time I winced and sat down on one of the steps, feeling the pang of sympathy for the other man flare in my chest. There was a crackle of something on the other side of the door and a sharp inhalation of breath.

"That's not true, Ginny," I almost didn't hear him through the closed door, Potter's voice was so soft. Soft with anger and hurt and what sounded like doubt. It seemed to give the Weaselette the confidence she needed to continue her attack, making her voice soft to match Potters as if that would show him how much she cared.

"It _is_ true, Harry. You may have fixed it up and put a new coat of paint on it but you can't change the fact that it was a gravesite for you parents. You can't keep clinging to the past and you can't keep clinging to _them_," her words were sugar coated but the bite to them was no less vicious. She wasn't pulling punches and I wondered if she really believed what she was saying or if she was just doing it to get what she wanted "In case you haven't noticed, Harry, they are _dead_," I covered my mouth with my hand, eyes wide. Even if it was true, there had a kinder way of saying it.

"Ginny," Potter's voice was low and dangerous and I could practically feel the wild, angry magic flooding the room as it poured off of him, "The paperwork will be changed as soon as Gringotts opens in the morning. You are no longer on any of the deeds," I could have cheered but it would have given me away and I didn't need the wrath I knew was burning in those wild green eyes to turn on me. The she-weasel made a sound as if she was going to say something but Potter wasn't done, "You will get all of your things out of my house by the end of the week or I am Incinerating them," this time she made an indignant noise but he still wouldn't let her speak, "Leave the key under the doormat. You will no longer be needing it. And since you dislike it there _so much_, I will be changing the wards as well,"

"Harry, calm down. Just think about this before you do anything rash," she sounded a little desperate but also a little condescending, as if she thought that this was just something he had to get out of his system and he would just forgive her in time. It made me curious as to how many times that had already happened; Potter forgiving her for something she had done after his temper was spent. Somehow, I doubted there would be forgiveness this time.

"Rash? _Rash_? You tried to sell my HOME! My _parents home!_" he had truly lost it now and the door rattled on its hinges as if trying to get away from his wrath, "I have put up with your selfish requests and thoughtless actions for almost _three years_ because I thought that you might grow up and I would see the strong, beautiful girl I fell in love with at Hogwarts! Did she even exist, Ginny, or have you been playing me all this time?" I bit my lip and tried to tell myself that my heart wasn't aching for him. It didn't work.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," the she-banshee said a little stiffly, ice crusting her voice, "I'm still that same girl. Maybe you just wanted something that didn't exist. No one can be perfect, you know," I have to admit, after everything I'd heard so far, I was not expecting this. The door rattled again, harder this time and I thought that she was incredibly foolish to have said something like that to him while he was so angry. Perhaps she thought she was being brave and standing up to him but there was never the need for cruelty.

"Get out," he hissed, sounding like the snakes I knew he could speak to, "Get out of here and don't come back. We are done," it shouldn't be that sexy, his fury. It shouldn't and yet it was, making me squirm uncomfortably on the stair. I heard someone walking, clicking footsteps nearing the door and I scrambled to my feet, wanting to make a get away before I was discovered. I wasn't quick enough, though and had barely just stood before the red headed Weasel was yanking the door open, light from the kitchen flooding the staircase.

"I'll let you cool down and then we can talk again," the she-banshee growled over her shoulder and I decided it probably wouldn't make a difference if I was caught. Not by her, anyway. Freckle-faced bint. She barely acknowledged me when she turned back around, merely lifting her chin in the air and looking down her nose at me. As if that had any effect whatsoever. I was the king of haughty; it was almost comical that she thought she could pull it off at all. Potter stood on the other side of the room and I watched as he made a furious, aborted movement with his hand that sent a porcelain teacup and saucer flying at her only to change course in the middle and smash against the wall. It stole my breath away and had the red head squeaking and scurrying away.

I stood against the wall on the steps, watching Potter as the she-weasel's footsteps faded and the front door slammed closed. He was breathing hard, face flushed and eyes so bright with his anger they seemed alive. I hated that he could just get angry and my heart would fall all over itself but there was no use trying to pretend it didn't. There was something magnificent about all that power barely leashed and whipped around him like a storm. I didn't need to act on the reaction his power stirred in me, unwelcome as it was. But I wasn't sure if I could continue to pretend it wasn't there, either. Not when he looked like _this_, blazing as hot as Feindfyre and powerful enough that I could practically _see_ the flames licking along his pale skin. When his eyes locked on me, blazing behind the wild curls of his hair, I felt a spark of heat bolt up my spine, a mixture of arousal and worry.

"How much did you hear?" his voice as still an aggressive growl, an angered lion that was debating whether I should become its prey. It was a comparison that should have made me uncomfortable but it didn't. He wouldn't hurt me, I knew that much but his temper, as much as it seemed to have mellowed over the years, was still something to contend with.

"Just about everything," I said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance as I stepped into the kitchen with him. I was anything but unaffected, though and had to swallow around the dryness in my mouth before I could be confident my words wouldn't crack, "I think the entire neighborhood heard just about everything," he frowned at me but didn't comment on it, which was a little surprising. I would have thought, with him still riled, he would be snapping at me like we were still at Hogwarts.

"She just…doesn't get it. She didn't want to hear that what she was doing was…" he shook his shaggy head and spun in place so that he could start pacing the length of the kitchen, taking huge, ground eating strides that looked much too big for the space he had. I pursed my lips as I watched him, thinking that all the man needed was a tail to lash and he would complete the image of a caged lion. He already had the mane and the presence.

"I get the impression that this is not the first time she was…inconsiderate of your feelings," I ventured finally, testing the limits of his temper and was rewarded with a sharp gesture similar to the one that sent the tea cup flying at the wall before. Nothing came flying at me, thankfully but his eyes burned like a touch of fire. He didn't say anything at first, clearly trying to wrestle his temper back under control. His nostrils were flared and his jaw was clenched, fists closed tight at his side.

"You could tell?" he managed to snap after a while, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. I nearly snorted aloud when his black locks stood on end, making him look like he'd been struck by lightning but decided it was probably best not to laugh at the man at the moment. I crossed my arms over my chest and lifted one shoulder.

"Not that hard to figure out, Potter. Every time I had the misfortune of meeting her, she was usually walking all over you," those green eyes were piercing, the dark brows drawn down over them like hulking thunderstorms, shadowing his expression and making me shiver, "like a door mat," I couldn't resist the final jab and he snarled wordlessly at me, blazing up in his hurt and rage. I admit, it wasn't fair to say but in reality, that was exactly what it had looked like. The woman took what she wanted from him without regard for Potter himself.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," he hissed, taking few steps towards me, smoldering dangerously. There was no more wild magic, though and I had to wonder as I stared back, holding my ground even though I wished I could take a step back, if he had been angrier at the ginger shrew than he was at me for stating the truth, "She wasn't always like this. Not really. Not at first," all at once, his anger seemed to dissipate, much like it had while we were in the sitting room earlier that day, "She is not the person I thought she was," his shoulders slumped and I realized I was looking at someone whose heart had just been broken by reality. In a different way than mine had been, of course, but I don't think the loss of love, no matter how it happens, is any less painful.

"Then why did you stay with her?" I asked quietly, no longer goading but just questioning. Potter tipped his head forward, letting his palm cover his face so I couldn't see his expression then uttered a bleak, hoarse laugh.

"For the same reason you mourn Blaise," when he glanced at me, he looked unaccountably sad and I hated it. The mention of my late lover sent a pang through me and I hated that too. Nothing with Potter was ever easy or straightforward. It was low of him to even bring Blaise into the conversation but I couldn't be angry with him for it, as much as I wished to be. Even when he shoved past me out the door, I just stood there, staring at the far wall and remembering what it had felt like to love.

The lack of Potter's towering presence in the room made the ceiling and walls feel so much farther away and I shuffled over to a chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. I didn't think Potter had said what he had because he was being mean or hurtful. Truthfully, he probably had a point. But I didn't want to believe that anything Potter might have had with the she-weasel was anything like what I'd had with Blaise. She didn't love Potter the way Blaise and I had loved each other; there had been nothing selfish or conniving between us.

And Potter could not possibly know what it was to miss someone the way I missed Blaise.

When Kreacher popped up at my elbow what felt like hours later, I had my forehead pressed to the table and my arms dangling uselessly at my sides, thinking about going to bed early but not having the energy or the will to get myself there.

"Would Master Draco be liking some tea to cheer him up?" the old house elf asked in his gravely voice and I couldn't even care enough to blink.

"No, Kreacher," I murmured, breath heating the wood under my lips, "I don't think anything will cheer me up," When I dozed off right there at the kitchen table, I dreamed of Blaise, smiling at me as he faded away.

* * *

It was close to midnight when Potter descended the stairs and found me in the sitting room, staring moodily at the flames that cracked in the fireplace. I had woken up on the couch nearly an hour ago, undoubtedly moved by Kreacher and hadn't moved. I could feel the ache of _missing_ Blaise twisting within my heart like a blade. It was keener today, perhaps because of Potter's thoughtless words or maybe because of the hurt that I had seen mirrored in his own eyes. True, the woman he loved didn't die but in a way, she had been taken from him too. She had let him down and proved to be someone who wasn't the person he loved. But at least he had a chance to move on, knowing she wasn't the one.

Blaise had been my one and he was gone forever.

The shadows in the green eyes muted all that bright color and the dark head was ducked in contrition. Clearly he felt bad about how he had left before. I just looked at him as he stepped into the room and made his way awkwardly to the chair across from me. I was rapidly beginning to think of it as "Potter's" chair and the couch as "my" couch and I was sure I should be troubled about that. I wasn't. It took too much energy. Potter shuffled around for a few moments, running his fingers through his hair and sighing.

"Look, I'm sorry about before," he said, still shifting about in his chair and jiggling his leg, "I shouldn't have said that," he seemed genuinely sorry, eyes wide and once again reminding me of a puppy. I just shrugged before looking back into the dying fire. Maybe it would have been worth it to drag myself up to bed after all, if I didn't need to listen to his worthless apologies.

"No harm in saying a dead man is dead," I murmured callously, pretending my own words didn't gouge away another chunk from my heart. Fuck, it shouldn't still hurt so much and I was terrified that, even after I could no longer remember Blaise's laugh or his voice or the color of his eyes, I would still be crippled by the pain of his loss. I could avoid it if I didn't think about it but it was always there, waiting behind the haze of numb exhaustion. Potter drew in a sharp breath and then I felt his hand on my arm, warm and real. It took too much effort to turn my head back to look at him but somehow I managed it.

"There _is_ and I'm sorry. I did not mean to hurt you," I snorted at his earnestness but didn't look away. How very green his eyes were, I mused. Once, I had thought it was impossible someone's eyes could be so green, made even more vivid against the black mane of his hair. But the more I watch him, looked at him, got to know him, I realized that they looked _right_ on him. It would figure that Potter would have impossible eyes. Everything else about him was impossible, why not the color of his eyes as well.

"Don't worry about my little feelings, Potter," I said tiredly, rubbing my fingertips over the material of the pants I was wearing. A pair of Potter's trousers, wrinkled a little and soft from many uses, "I'm not," I saw a flash of anguish flash across his face. Anguish and guilt. He licked his lips and gently squeezed my arm before letting go and sitting back in his chair.

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," he murmured softly and I refused to let myself be moved by the gentleness of his tone. He watched me for a long moment, the dwindling fire throwing odd shadows across his features before he sighed and looked away, "I was thinking about that party that G-Ginny accepted in my name," I noted the way he stumbled over the she-weasel's name, though to his credit, he didn't wince or alter his expression once. Taking solace in the change of subject, I lifted one eyebrow and tucked my feet under me.

"Oh?" he nodded, looking strangely nervous and determined, which was an odd combination even for him. The thing he said next, however, was not something I would ever have expected him to say in a million years.

"Yeah, uh," he licked his lips then met my eyes, his own bright and full, "I'm going to go. And I'd like to take you with me,"

TBC...

_etdited: for a really stupid mistake that someone kindly pointed out to me. *shakes head* Obviously, I was on crack when I wrote that Harry was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper and he tells Draco he doesn't read the paper...*headdesk* Sorry about that guys!_


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